


Don't Belong To Anyone (Else)

by sparkleeye



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Breeding Kink, Come Inflation, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Crying, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingering, Impregnation Kink, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Overstimulation, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-07-01 14:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15776157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkleeye/pseuds/sparkleeye
Summary: And he does, just Billy’s fucking luck, because Harrington licks his lips and hoarsely goes, “I fucking knew it, fuck Hargrove, you’re in heat.”He shudders as Harrington takes a step towards him. The tangy, warm scent of alpha has him struggling to stand upright, already slipping into the too far gone state and it’s fucking Harrington’s fault because he still won’t leave.Better yet, he knows, he can smell the sweetness of omega, particularly herbal and saccharine like lavender and vanilla - Billy knows he smells like a girly little candle, okay - flooding the air between them. He could push Billy over and take him there, on the floor, push his face down onto the cracked, dusty concrete and fuck him stupid.aka -- Billy is a stubborn idiot and goes to school during his heat.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! i've had this sitting in my drafts for forever and i've finally gotten the boost of inspiration to finish it. just quickly before you jump into this thing --
> 
> I. i've got some of my own personal a/b/o lore here going on, based off things i've read for years and my own "view" of it. all the typical, base level stuff is the same but there's a few quirks i'll probably be throwing in the second part.
> 
> II. i've somehow never written a/b/o before?? i've been reading it for literally years - shoutout to teen wolf fic for bringing it into my life - but this is my first real go at it and i just, i fucking ran with it, okay.
> 
> III. part one is _pretty_ nsfw but part two is going to be absolutely filthy and i delve into some... new territory writing-wise, for me. it's essentially a personal kinkfest and i apologize ahead of time but i didn't want to put all the tags in right away and spoil things??

Billy should’ve known better.

He should’ve recognized that dull headache pounding like a hammer against his temples and reverberating off his skull behind eyelids, and those straining aches in his lower back, his neck, the backs of his thighs. Should’ve known he’d woken up sweating through his sheets that morning for a damn good reason.

He could blame the meds but they’re not completely at fault. The warning signs are still blaring, flashing neon lights even now, when they’d came so unexpectedly and without a trackable pattern.

Despite the odds, Billy, well. He’s pretty fucking smart.

He knows how to work keggers and maintain a near fucking perfect GPA average at the same time. Knows how to charm his way between a girl’s soft thighs, how to make a lonely housewife flush from her cheeks to the tops of her breasts, how to have Max home before dinner and formulate a believable story that she wasn’t hanging out at The Palace with Lucas Sinclair, still sipping on a half-full Coke the kid bought her at the dining room table.

He also knows, out of the _many_ things he does, that Neil tracks and counts the pills he takes every morning before he leaves for school, and that he has to make a show out of slipping the little pink spheres and white ovular pieces between his lips and following them with a mouthful of coffee, still steaming and black, while holding his father’s gaze.

Seeing as he’s _kind_ _of_ versed in being an omega and spending the past few months pretending he’s not, he doesn’t really understand how he missed this.

He knows it’s the new blockers and suppressants, the ones that come in the little orange bottles with the childproof lids. They’re the highest dosage on the market that’ve been approved but still illegal by way of California law because they’re fucking _dangerous_ , and because its laws regarding secondary classification are progressive as _shit_ compared to most other states, he’s never had to be on them before.

But not out here in Indiana, oh no. Everyone’s hopped up on some kind of blocker or suppressant, too fucking afraid to be in tune with their blood instincts, all the ticks and traits tattooed on their DNA. Like it’s _unnatural_.

The low dosage meds, the ones he was on back home, just regulate everything. Make it a little easier, take the edge off. Make it easy enough that you can calculate your next cycle by day and box it off in red pen on your calendar.

The high dosage shit pushes your heat or rut off until your body literally can’t take it anymore, all the warning signs of an upcoming cycle hitting last minute, a landslide of emotional outbursts, body aches, hot flashes.

And then when the actual heat or rut hits it’s a slap to the damn face, a shove off a cliff into icy water. Sudden and swift. It’s the sudden release of all the animalistic need, the fucking ache and anxiety, agitation, the desire and fever heat cooking your insides, all hitting tenfold.

The drugs make Billy feel like he’s been stuffed with cotton. His senses are blunt, dulled and muffled behind the filmy screen of medication. He barely smells like _himself,_  his own brand of omega, under his daily misting of Aramis. He can barely smell anyone else too, which _really_ pisses him the hell off, because he can’t scent out a potential fuck and isn’t going to risk going by personality traits.

This isn’t the fucking _fifties_.

Billy’s not stupid and he knows the only time secondary classification and class-typical personality even match up, _contrary_ to what people like his father think, is during heats and ruts, because your body goes on autopilot while your hormones take the captain’s chair.

And he fucking _hates_ it.

He actually _wants_ to feel the shudder of arousal that comes from a whiff of a particularly good smelling alpha, the golden glint in their eyes when they can sniff him out in return. He likes the ones that smell like citrus, tangy and fresh, and the way the earth smells after it rains, or like the smokiness of crackling firewood and the spice of sandalwood.

He likes them warm and woodsy or crisp and fresh, but either way — always comforting.

But no, now he can’t smell _anyone_ , not even himself. Not even the ones that would usually make him wrinkle his nose in disgust and snarl at in agitation, _back the fuck off_.

And he doesn’t know when his heat’s going to come - well, maybe _now_ he does, with the telltale ache in his gut - so he doesn’t get to nest now, no time to gather the things he needs. That makes him even pissier. Like even if it really isn’t his favorite thing about an omega, the nesting is still comforting. It makes the buzz of anxiety that grips him between waves of arousal settle, makes him feel safe and blocked off, unable to be touched or bothered or even hurt.

And besides all that, all the nauseating pills and muffled senses, when it all lets up and the sudden onslaught of heat symptoms he’s been dealing with for _years_ finally hits, he just ignores them. Pretends like he doesn’t know or something, like it’s all too good to be true and he’s just unwillingly fucking with himself.

He ignores it all like a fucking _idiot_ , a lamb to the slaughter. Ignores the ache in his stomach and the static buzzing under his skin, the surge of blood crashing in his ears, the magnified itching that follows with each brush of his clothes.

It takes barely twenty-four hours to fully hit — nearly a third of the time it usually does.

Morning comes and Billy gets out of bed, aching and sweaty and sluggish, takes his pills like the good son his father tells him he isn’t, and chases them with some painkillers and hot coffee. Dresses for warm weather even though it’s fucking _freezing_ outside with the grass on the lawn frosted and the prediction of snowfall that’s coming up during the weekend.

Like a goddamn _moron_ he drives himself and Max to school. He figures maybe it won’t hit him until later in the day so he _should_ be fine, possibly later. It’s just his fucking _meds_ driving everything at ninety miles per hour, speeding up the process to a point that he can’t calculate. Leaving the house today is a goddamn gamble. Luckily everyone’s hopped up on so many suppressants they probably wouldn’t be able to differentiate the smell of an omega in preheat from some artificial perfumey shit anyway.

Billy’s head is pounding as he fumbles in the glove compartment for his sunglasses and keeps the stereo low. It’s still Whitesnake, _okay_ , because he needs some kind of minute distraction that isn’t Max’s stupid alternative music that makes him want to brain himself on the steering wheel.

Max just watches him under pointed, bright blue-green eyes while a confused frown takes hold of her mouth. Irritated, he stares back just to try and break her gaze, but she’s an unrelenting little shit and Billy doesn’t have the energy to growl at her right now.

The way she watches him is careful and cautious and it makes his gut bubble hot with irritation.

It’s not like Max _knows_ anyway. Neil definitely won’t tell her and Susan won’t do it without incurring Neil’s wrath, so she stays quiet. And Max hasn’t presented yet so she can’t really sniff him out, but she’s close to the age where she will.

Seeing her mom and _real_ dad she’s probably destined to be a beta, an alpha if a twist of luck came into play. She could be an omega like him, too. It’s equally likely, an even third of the possible outcomes — classification is really just a gamble with a sprinkling of chance based on your genetics.

She’s got that spitfire, that protective nature and headstrong aggression that people should know isn’t strictly based on secondary gender at this point. She could be anything honestly, but Billy knows Neil is praying for her to present as alpha so he can showpony her around.

But yeah, Max doesn’t know he’s an omega unless she actually figured it out herself. Damn kid still calls him a “walking alpha stereotype” whenever he snaps at her to _shut up, Maxine._  And if she had already presented - or was starting to be able to scent, at least - she’d be covering her nose with her sweater and trying to get as far from his scent as possible, probably sticking her head out the window to gulp in fresh air like a dog because the brat’s so damn dramatic.

“What’s with you?” she asks as they’re rounding the corner to the school and good, she actually doesn’t know. She’s just shivering because both of the windows in the front seat are rolled down and that awful scratchy scarf Susan knit her is constricting her neck while she curls her arms around herself and her parka.

Meanwhile he’s still fucking boiling.

With the windows down, some of the burn in his skin recedes, and he can make out the harsh edges of everything now, too, scents magnified to a dizzying point — the artificial sweetness of Max’s strawberry shampoo, wet pavement and damp grass, then fried dough and sugar wafting out of that doughnut place on McMillan that makes a damn good bear claw.

And it’s not that the meds completely stifle his sense of smell, but they make him feel like someone’s stuffed cotton swabs or tissues up his nasal cavity and he can barely catch the edges of everyday scents. Like fucking allergies. Now he’s grateful, though, feels _alive_ again, taking in everything he can while he’s got his senses back and isn’t confined to his mattress.

“Getting sick,” he says gruffly, fans himself, his denim jacket abandoned in the backseat with his knapsack, “’ve got a fucking fever or something.”

Max shivers again and pulls her legs up onto the seat, her fiery hair whipping her in the face. She clicks her tongue.

“Well then you should’ve stayed home. Exposing yourself to the thirty-seven degree weather is just going to make it worse. I’ve got friends that can take me to school if you’re like, _dying_ or whatever. I mean, I could ask Steve — he takes Dustin home a lot.”

Billy rolls his eyes and somehow silences the sharp grumble rolling up in the back of his throat. He knows she’s barely spoken to him today, has caught onto that vibe he’s putting out - like he’s _very_ acutely aware of that, thanks - but he’s so dizzy with hormones and antsy with sensation, just wishes she’d fucking be _silent_ for once.

Even if their relationship isn’t as cat and dog as it once was and he can admittedly appreciate some of her smarter quips, the influx of hormones rushing his system like a burst pipe makes his temper flare more than usual.

He doesn’t give her a proper response, trying to keep his temper in check now and stays quiet, pulls into the bustling Hawkins High parking lot without his usual forewarning of a bass solo and a four-four drum beat.

There are flaky remnants of brown, dried leaves on the ground, strips of black ice crystallizing the outer corners of the asphalt near the aged, cracked sidewalk. Cigarette butts and a chewed, dried up rainbow assortment of gum litter the ground.

Some senior girls wave to him as they sit perched on the trunks of their cars and he ignores them. He doesn’t feel obligated or even _alive_ enough to keep up appearances right now.

Getting out of the car, he nearly wipes out on some black ice. Seeing as ice has replaced any and every form of condensation outside, it’s a miracle it hasn’t snowed yet. The absence of chittering insects and chirping birds, all the shrubbery glittering under a sheen of frost while its struck by the golden morning sun say that winter’s already here.

He’s from California and has spent his whole life in an area where the air just outside the vicinity of the beach is dry heat in summer and a damp chill in the winter. He’s not used to this bullshit cold weather and the threat of snow.

And it would be a fucking _miracle_ if he was just getting sick, although he’s really not. Pre-heat symptoms are scarily similar to those that accompany a flu. Billy’s just never been that lucky. He can pass off pretending to get sick, but he’s still tempting fate by walking into the lion’s den this close to his heat.

Even if everyone’s filled up on meds that dull out all their senses, an alpha _could_ potentially sniff him out.

He convinces himself he doesn’t care, rather _unconvincingly_ if he’s actually honest with himself, but will beat the potential alpha to a bloody, bruised pulp if they try anything. Will keep them quiet if he has to, by any means.

Max is still standing by the open passenger side door, watching him with the same way she had been in the car when he takes his knapsack out of the backseat. She’s got her board tucked under one arm and backpack slung over the opposite shoulder, the scarf still tight around her neck. It’s too damn slippery for the skateboard and she’s probably going to wipe out if she tries to use it but he doesn’t warn her.

Scowling and shivering, she pulls the top of the scarf down, asks, “Are you _sure_ —”

“Go to class, Max,” he snaps back.

She shoots him one last skeptical look, like he would expect any less from her, before she skates off to the middle school without turning back. She gets halfway across the parking lot before she wobbles and nearly skids, then hops off and tucks the board back under one arm.

He’d laugh at her if only she was still looking, and saunters off to first period, trying not to claw out of his skin with each passing look he gets.

 _I’ll be fine,_ he thinks. It’ll be fucking _peachy_.

But then it hits him earlier than he thought. Hits him, honestly, at least a full day before it should.

Hits him right in the middle of fucking _gym_.

Maybe he should’ve told Coach he was under the weather or some shit, sat out or even ditched altogether. Then he’d at least catch a few z’s in the nurse’s office or even have the ancient, monotonous nurse check his temperature and send him home with a note that would _maybe_ save his ass if Neil saw him home early without Max.

He’s already sweating before they do their starting laps and ends up using his abandoned gym shirt as a sweat rag. He’s constantly pausing to gulp down water too, ignoring the berating from Coach that he’s going to make himself sick if he keeps chugging like that, panting as he rubs salty droplets of sweat and cool fountain water from his upper lip.

Once they get into a warm up game, he thinks he can make it through the period. The slap of the ball against waxed hardwood gives him something to focus on and he works on playing defense for once, opting to guard so he doesn’t really have to touch anyone.

Especially not Harrington, whose wild brown eyes have been trained on him the whole class and are only fanning the flames, keeping him fever-hot and scalding to the touch.

Which is really, _really_ not fucking fair, because Harrington’s face has healed nicely since their... altercation of sorts on Jonathan Byers’ kitchen floor.

He knows it was technically a fight because he _nearly_ broke Harrington’s nose and totally concussed the guy, but he likes dressing it up in his head. Makes him feel less guilty.

Harrington has fascinated him for a ridiculous number of reasons since he came to town, one of those being that he’s an alpha, a _good looking_ alpha, that once did the stereotypical run-around with a good handful of omega and beta girls and is now practically celibate, at least to his knowledge. For fuck’s sake, the guy was fucking societal royalty and now he babysits a bunch of middle schoolers and the only people he still really talks to at the high school are his bitchy ex and her creepy new squeeze.

That rumor, the one he’s pretty positive Tommy started, that he’s fucking _both_ Byers and Wheeler, just doesn’t fit him. He’s too good for that, really, Billy’s sure. He’s probably a caring alpha, all roses and courtship— not some kinky fucker that needs two partners to dampen his sexual appetite. He might, god only fucking knows, but Billy would have to disagree.

Harrington probably knows how to fuck good and hard but Tommy’s full of bullshit and thinks the worst jab he can make at the guy is by essentially boosting his sexual prowess. Fucking idiot — he probably wants a taste of Harrington’s dick himself, and Billy doesn’t like that.

But Billy doesn’t really _know_ Harrington, but he’s got some preconceived assumptions made. Some that make his lip curl in annoyance - _rich fucking pretty boy_ , prince of righteousness - and some that have him wanting to inch closer - like how he bets Harrington smells real good, and he would gladly take a whiff if he didn’t feel so congested all the damn time - because his interest is so piqued.

The only thing now is that Harrington won’t stop fucking staring.

Billy thinks he should throw the ball at him or something for it, but his arms feel too heavy to do much more than pass and dribble today and everyone’s on his ass about it, especially _Tommy_ , who he’d _really_ like to elbow right in the mouth and have spit out a glob of bloody saliva, maybe a tooth.

And okay, Harrington looks fucking _good_ right now. Better than he usually does. All panting and quick on his feet, because Billy can’t exactly kick him down today.

But then Harrington bumps into him, the guy’s damp, clothed back colliding with his bare chest.

That’s when he catches it, a chance whiff of something else under sweat and hair product, so very musky, smokey, a little citrusy. Like sandalwood and grapefruit. Absolutely _alpha_ and better, _more_.

This is the first time he’s really smelled it on him — _alpha_. It’s delicious, mouth watering, and he immediately wants to bury his face in it, let it pour into his lungs on every inhale. It’s like he’s bound by it, Harrington’s scent winding around him and restraining him, keeping him steady and still.

And when Harrington knocks into him a second time, he just — he fucking goes _down_.

It’s like the ever-so-gentle collision of Harrington bumping into his chest was enough to shake the last dredges of his blockers off. Now he can smell _everything_ just as strongly as he used to — all the salty, bitter sweat and the chemical-sweet, piney floorwax, the mixing of musky alpha and earthy beta pheromones and their various colognes both dizzying and nauseating.

He can smell himself now, too, cloying and herbal, and that’s terrifying as _hell_ seeing where he’s stuck right now.

“Jesus, you okay?” Harrington suddenly asks, surprisingly putting a tentative hand out, “you look like _shit_ , man.”

“‘m fucking _fine_ ,” he growls, tries deflecting, but he still, somehow, holds his own hand out weakly to grab onto the guy’s pale wrist, and waits to be pulled up.

The second Harrington's fingertips ghost over his skin, holding firm, his whole body tenses. There’s still the comforting, overwhelming tangy, smoldering scent of alpha circulating in his system, making it hard to stand, and when Harrington properly grips at him, their eyes lock.

Harrington swallows.

Billy shudders. Immediately he feels it — the sticky dampness accumulating between his cheeks.

It’s just that, it’s never hit this _fast_ before. He’s usually got a two to three day waiting period beforehand, with, y’know, _actual_ warning signs, not this, this burst of everything all at once over the span of _maybe_ a day.

But this is also the first heat he’s had where the new suppressants have completely hit. The last heat he had occurred before they moved - months ago - and wasn’t all that bad, the usual aches and pains, but now, _fuck_ , he feels on fire.

And there’s nowhere for him to go.

Luckily he’s quick on his feet, makes a low gurgling sound in his throat that makes Harrington jump back and one of the guys behind him, Connor he thinks, mutter something lowly, goes, “ugh, fuckin’ gross.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Billy tries, voice going hoarse and he pitches forward, hunched over the floor for dramatic effect.

“Not on _my_ court you’re not,” Coach snaps from the sidelines, “Christ Hargrove, I told you not to chug all that water. Harrington, get him to the nurse a-sap.”

He hears Harrington sigh above him, _fuck_ , and hauls him up carefully, a tentative hand on his shoulder that quickly gets him across the gym and outside the double doors. Immediately the biting air hits him and Billy pitches forward, sighs in relief, tries to catch his breath as the winter air nips at his damp forehead, his exposed chest, his bare legs.

Harrington leaves him for a second, then returns with his gym tee, takes a step back and scrunches his nose up.

“If you’re gonna hurl, go over there or something, Christ,” he grimaces.

The guy’s got his arms crossed over his chest and he’s shivering a little. A loose piece of his bangs hangs in his eyes, dark with sweat, and one of his striped socks has fallen down his calf. Even now, looking irritated and standing there like a petulant child, shivering in the mid-November air, Harrington's still heavily permeating alpha out of every pore. Drips out of him like a leaky faucet.

“‘m not gonna _hurl_ ,” Billy growls, “god, what are you, five? In case you’re fucking blind, I’m sick — I got a fucking fever. I need to go home.”

Harrington doesn’t _know,_ thank _god._

Then he snatches his shirt from his grip and starts off toward the locker room, rounds the corner from the back entrance of the gym where they’re standing. Icy bits of condensation wet his bare legs as he achingly trudges through a patch of unmowed grass and back onto the pavement, and for some reason, Harrington's behind him.

The wind’s blowing east behind him, too, sending more heavy citrus and spice into his lungs, and it’s really not fucking _fair_ , not in the slightest. He clenches up as minutely as he can.

“Why’re you going to the locker room then? Nurse’s office is that way.”

Billy's going to punch him or something. Harrington might smell like a goddamn five course meal and possibly taste even better, but that doesn’t mean Billy’s _not_ going to give him a good shove or smack reminiscent to that a few weeks ago.

And though it sounds appealing in theory, he’s not going to bend over for the guy either, like pull his shorts down then and there and spread himself so he can get filled.

He’s riding the edge of desperate, but he’s still got some dignity, even with his slick already dangerously close to trickling passed his briefs and wetting his thighs, and the smell of Harrington clinging to each gust of wind. He can’t fucking _risk this_.

“So I can get my _shit_ , get my damn _note_ , and go the _fuck_ home,” he grinds out, “fuck off already, Harrington, I’ll be _fine_.”

He doesn’t look back and trudges on.

Harrington continues to follow him though, right into the sanctuary of the locker room with that big fluorescent orange stripe encapsulating the walls and faded green-grey lockers. It smells like sweat and smoke, like unwashed gym uniforms and a godless concoction of cologne, pheromones and soap. The concrete is grimy and there’s definitely some grey mildew growing in the corner of the room above the back row of showers.

He’s getting dizzier with each step. He needs to lean up against the painted brick and dated stucco, slip one hand down between his legs and quickly rub one out. Needs to get the edge off so he can get _home_. Get _safe_.

But he can’t, because he’s still got fucking _company_.

Billy closes his eyes as he leans up against his locker and drops his sweat-drenched gym tee to the floor. He pants, presses his warm back to the cool metal, and opens his eyes again.

He’s going to break Harrington’s nose or something, because he’s _still_ standing there, mere feet away, at the entrance to the row. Only difference now is, from what Billy can see through heavy, lust-clouded eyes, is Harrington’s big, kind eyes are nearly black, his pupils flooding out that honey brown, and he’s staring right at him like he fucking knows something.

And he does, just Billy’s fucking _luck_ , because Harrington licks his lips and hoarsely goes, “I fucking knew it, _fuck_ Hargrove, you’re in _heat_.”

He shudders as Harrington takes a step towards him. The tangy, warm scent of alpha has him struggling to stand upright, already slipping into the _too far gone_ state and it’s fucking Harrington’s fault because he still won’t _leave_.

Better yet, he knows, he can smell the sweetness of omega, particularly herbal and saccharine like lavender and vanilla - Billy _knows_ he smells like a girly little candle, okay - flooding the air between them. He could push Billy over and take him there, on the floor, push his face down onto the cracked, dusty concrete and fuck him stupid.

And Billy wants to defend himself, he really does, but he can barely manage a “fuck off, Harrington” right now. He’s weak for a touch — needs to get a hand around himself like, _now_.

What he manages to do instead of defending himself or getting the message out to Harrington that he has to go, is laugh a little maniacally, like he’s trying to taunt him, and says, “So what if I am, pretty boy, huh? You gonna do something about it?”

Because if Billy’s being perfectly honest with himself, he likes the playful twinkle in Harrington’s eye and the way he’d gone all flushed the second his taunt, his _dare_ really, had been spit out.

And Harrington’s starting to strain in his shorts now, too; Billy can see the faint outline of his cock pressing against green cotton. His mouth waters, hungry for a taste. Harrington eyes his bottoms too, like he’s just finally realized the gravity of the situation at hand. He licks his lips and Billy’s knees buckle.

“I can,” Harrington says, eyes dark and mouth stained red, “if you want.”

Billy, stupefied really, doesn’t know how the _fuck_ he’s supposed to answer.

And like sure, Harrington doesn’t have to fuck him or anything - and he’s not going to let him, _thanks_ , or so he _thinks_ \- even though he’s seen the goddamn _monster_ tucked in those little green shorts before, albeit nude and soft, and has had some rather unabashed fantasies about getting it in his mouth, rubbing it against his hole a few times before it just slips in like it’s found a new home inside him.

If the guy’s just offering to get him off once or twice to shove the edge off then yeah, sure, _go fucking ahead_.

Harrington’s hot, he really is, and he smells _amazing_. And yeah he smells like an alpha, has notes many alpha males share, but there’s somehow _more_.

There’s that headiness of smoke under the tang of citrus, all citrusy zest and amber, that he picked up in the gym earlier. It could be his cologne, reminiscent of tropical fruit and freshly cut wood, something a preppy rich boy like Harrington would wear.

Regardless, Billy can’t stop thinking about it and wants his sheets to _reek_ of it.

Harrington speaks again, and his voice is rough and low, gritty. “Say yes and I’ll help you,” he says hoarsely, “say no and I’ll leave right now.” And Harrington takes a step closer, “This is just between us, I swear.”

Billy licks his lips, lets one hand trace over his damp, fevered torso before slipping over the waistband of his shorts and cupping a hand around himself through his pants. He gives a little stroke, feels his cock dribble a little against his hip, bites his lip.

“Gonna need a little more convincing than ‘I swear’, Harrington,” Billy chides, keeps his grin wicked and white even though it’s hard to do anything more than just breathe. “Why don’t you come over and show me just how much you _promise_ you’re gonna keep your fucking mouth shut.”

His voice is going slow and rich like syrup — his words pour passed his lips.

He watches as Harrington hesitates for a minute, and if he’s too big for his britches that’s going to be disappointing as all hell, but then he moves quick, is suddenly up in Billy’s space.

Big brown eyes trace over his evident bulge, the spot of pre dampening his shorts, before they rake up his fevered frame to his face. Their eyes meet and the air is nearly punched from his lungs, something electrifying there and making his nerves buzz, cementing him in place.

Harrington’s hand gingerly comes to rest on his hip. Another jolt runs through his veins as the guy’s thumb strokes over the bone. It’s dizzying really, being this close to him, their pheromones crashing and mixing like waves.

He licks at his bottom lip, works it between his teeth briefly.

“Tell me what you want, Hargrove,” he breathes.

Billy tries to laugh but it just sounds like he’s panting.

“Harrington -”

Harrington’s hand remains planted on his hip and he swallows, watches those pink, slick lips raggedly whisper, “Tell me what you need, _Hargrove_ ,” in the lowest, fucking _sexiest_ voice he’s ever heard.

It’s so damn hard for him to talk, to even nod his head, but he manages somehow. He nods quick like he’s twitching or something. Practically vibrating, his cock aches in his shorts and the backs of his thighs are damp with sweat, maybe a little slick because he’s close to _leaking_.

All because of Harrington, the _prick_.

“Hargrove,” Harrington repeats, and his voice drops even lower, goes rough like gravel, “answer me.”

Harrington _never_ has an edge like this.

Usually their interactions are far and few outside of practice. It’s all confined to quick glances in the halls, a bump to the shoulder, that kind of shit. Petty. Just enough on Billy’s end to remind Harrington that he’s here. Harrington never gives much back in return, like he’s happy to ignore him.

But the Harrington in front of him now is the same Harrington that jabbed his bare chest with two calloused fingers, threatened him to get out of the Byers’ place. He’s got King _motherfucking_ Steve here, pure sex and pure alpha.

Billy chews at his lip briefly, looks down between them. Harrington’s hand is barely pressed to his skin and a careful thumb works his hip, feather light and almost tentative. He just, he needs it _now_ , needs Harrington as close as possible, doesn’t really _care_ how far they get at this point.

He’s wound tight, a coiled spring, but wouldn’t be unobliged, not at this point at least, to let Harrington do whatever he wants. It’s a little shocking, he briefly realizes, his head cloudy with lust and fever and with Harrington so close, just how easily he’d let the alpha take him, here and now.

And just how, well, honestly thrilled he’d be about it, too.

So glassy eyed and slack jawed, he nods, almost afraid Harrington doesn’t see it, and follows it with a hoarse, “Just touch me.”

He’s surrendering, he knows, which he just doesn’t do, but he still bares his neck just so, wants to feel Harrington’s teeth press dangerously close to his scent gland and push, press into his body any way he sees fit.

And Billy, well — Billy’s going to let him.

Harrington’s the romantic type, that’s for fucking sure — probably bought Princess Wheeler flowers and carried her books and opened doors for her, that kind of shit. And proof of that comes in the way Harrington gives his chin gentle tilt, rubbing his plush bottom lip with one thumb before working over his stubbled jaw with open-mouthed sucks and drags of teeth.

The hand still settled on Billy’s hip is maddening. Harrington’s just keeping it there, not touching where he needs it right now so he has to wriggle a little, signify that he needs a little more than what he’s getting.

The drag of Harrington’s sweet mouth over his jaw and down his neck sends tiny sparks through his nerves, but it’s very quickly not enough and he takes his stationary hand in his own and moves it from his hip to the tented fabric of his gym shorts. He grinds forward, _c’mon, c’mon_ , into the warm weight of the guy’s palm, but it’s pissing him off because Harrington’s too fucking polite about it.

Billy moves away to look at the guy and scowls, mouth twisted up all mean. “You’re supposed to be getting me _off_ Harrington, not taking my fucking virginity on prom night —”

“Funny, I mean, coming from the same guy who couldn’t even _talk_ a minute ago and then bared his _neck_ the second I got close,” and Harrington palms him for real, thank fucking _god_ , and he lets an unabashed little groan out as Harrington grins into the curve of his jaw, “that’s a goddamn _riot_.”

“I’m in _heat_ you jackass,” Billy grits, and he tries to sound as mean and acidic as he usually does with Harrington, but he really just sounds all breathy and his words are stuck together, syrup slow, like a fucking _whore_ , “everything’s fucking hard.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, did you know that? People think _I’m_ stupid, but you’re the one who marched right onto campus on the day you started your heat.”

“It’s not like I _knew_ it was gonna hit, the meds screw everything up. How the hell could you even smell me anyways, I thought all you uptight hicks were drugged to the fuckin’ _max_.”

Harrington licks his lips. “ _I’m_ not on the heavy shit, I could smell you the second I saw you earlier. And yeah I thought I was hallucinating or something, like _no way Billy Hargrove is an omega_ ,” and Harrington kicks off his Nikes, his voice slipping into nonchalance, “but then the second it happened, I smelled the heat on you and I _knew_ I couldn't be wrong.”

Harrington has prime blackmail material now but the threat of it turns him on even more, all his shame out the damn window, knowing that Harrington could just, hold this against him, use him up in exchange for his silence.

Billy swallows hard. “And you weren’t, so are you gonna keep gabbing or are you actually gonna do something about it?”

Harrington looks down between their bodies, then slowly brings his gaze up to catch Billy’s. Under warm hooded eyes, Harrington slips his shirt off and abandons it on the floor over his tennis shoes. He’s still in his shorts with his cock firmly pressed against the cotton, starting to wet the fabric against his hip.

Billy swallows, still dressed to the same level he was when he walked in. He knows that isn’t going to last though, not with the way Harrington’s looking at him, aching and starving. Wonders how long it’s been since Harrington got his dick wet.

“Be _good_ for me and you’ll find out,” Harrington says.

Billy bites back a whimper, lets it die in his throat and tries to pass it off as a cough. He’s leaking for sure now, is probably staining the fabric darker the more worked up he gets. Harrington talking like the big man he was, could _still_ be — it works him up more. If they don’t get busy like, now, though, he’s not leaving the locker room anytime soon.

And he won’t be getting home anytime soon, either.

“Fuckin’ get your hands on me, then.”

Harrington smirks, too smart and cocky. A look like that would usually make Billy want to knock it right the fuck off of his face, but now it’s endearing. He likes the way confidence looks on Harrington. Likes him to stand his ground and take fucking charge.

Plant his feet.

Billy lets him slide his shorts and briefs down and hastily steps out of them, braces his palms against the clammy metal of his locker. Careful fingertips trace over the head of his cock and he freely whimpers this time. Needs Harrington to know how badly he _needs_ this, how badly he _wants_ this.

Harrington’s sinking to his knees and Billy’s pretty fucking sure he’s going to get sucked off - oh, _finally_ \- until his dick is completely surpassed and Harrington goes to unlace his grimy Converse and slide his socks down. It’s intimate, uncomfortably so, and makes his skin feel like plastic wrap over his muscles and bones — tearable and stretched too thin.

He doesn’t _do_ this. He usually gets his cock out and gets to fucking work, doesn’t play with pleasantries and fucking hand holding.

But then Harrington’s kissing up his thigh, careful hands holding him steady. And Billy, really, he has to momentarily admit that he privately devours any attention brought to his legs, especially his thighs. They’re so fucking sensitive, both the backs and insides of them. His nerves are alight with fire when a sharp kiss is pressed into the skin just right of his groin, a soft, sensitive spot strip along his inner thigh, and it tingles when Harrington’s teeth rake over it twice, three times.

Wandering fingers crawl under the curve of his ass. He presses his own fingernails into tousled brown hair, trying to be encouraging or something, maybe push Harrington down onto his cock. Do the kind of thing he used to do when he’d push all those sun-kissed alpha and beta boys onto their knees or backs for him, so he could tuck his cockhead into their warm, wet mouths and watch how their eyes would go lazy and unfocused when he’d start fucking their throats.

He doesn’t think about the few unfortunate hookups he’s had with girls since he’s come to town — doesn’t get the thrill out of pushing gloss smeared lips onto his shaft or whispering gentle encouragement while staring into mascara laden, eyeshadow smeared eyes. It doesn’t do anything for him other than help make his alpha facade more convincing to the general populous.

Each orgasm with them takes too long to achieve and is an exasperated gasp of relief that it’s over. Otherwise he feels _nothing._

This, though, an alpha’s hands on his body, particularly _Steve Harrington’s_ hands on his body, this definitely does something for him.

And like, it’s actually nice, Harrington’s silent appraisal of his body, of his drawn out seduction process. But Billy can’t fucking deal with this soft first time bullshit, not _right_ _now_ at least.

“Harrington -”

“Get in the shower, turn the water on, make it really hot.”

His brow furrows, his head too fuzzy with static and arousal to make sense of it. “What?”

“Just do it,” Harrington snarks, like he’s got the brass and the authority to _ever_ talk to Billy like he’s stupid and petulant, “the steam helps cover up your scent and I can’t have you reeking like me on your way home.”

Billy forgives the tone for the moment and starts toward the row of showers. He’d honestly love to smell like Harrington throughout his heat, like the smoked tang of musk, of the soft tartness of orange pith. As endearing as it is, it’s not the _best_ plan, so he simply obeys.

It’s a fucking miracle, really.

The handle on the shower screeches as it’s turned, steam filling the air gradually as the water slowly shifts from ice cold to scalding. Harrington is standing a few feet away, watching him with wide eyes as he gets the rest of his clothes off.

When his briefs drop, his cock springs up, heavy and hard and wet at the tip. Billy’s mouth nearly waters when Harrington walks over, hooded eyes cast down as he watches Harrington’s cock bob with each stride. His mouth feels empty as he watches and he needs the weight of it pressing down against his tongue, pushing to the back of his throat, making his jaw ache.

Harrington hesitates before stepping in the immediate vicinity of the shower. They’re mere inches apart, like, nearly toe to toe, but neither moves. Billy’s holding his breath, anticipating a nudge or a shove or even a manhandling so he’s pressed chest-first to the sweating stucco and tile.

Instead, Harrington crowds even closer, close enough to kiss, and emulates the same movement he’d done once before — two fingers pressing into the tender meat of one pectoral. This time Billy lets himself fall under the steamy spray, welcomes the palm that flattens to his chest and guides him under the water. His skin is scorching, fever-hot, and the boiling water does nothing but wet his hair and wash any lingering sweat down the drain.

All the steam between them is making him feel even fuzzier, like all his thoughts have fizzled out into white noise. Harrington’s scent clings to the back of his throat and makes it hard to focus on anything other than touch and sound. The feel of Harrington’s mouth on his thigh, the gentle splashing of their bare feet in standing water -

“Hey, Hargrove,” Harrington says loudly, “c’mon, the team’s gonna be in here before too late. What do you need?”

Harrington’s acting like he’s fucking got a bloody nose or something, like he’s just mildly inconvenienced and that he’s not absolute fucked sideways if anyone else walks in and finds out about his sordid little omega secret.

But he can’t get a feel for the words, can’t mouth his needs.

“ _Billy_.”

And oh, _fuck_ , Billy’s never heard Harrington say his first name like that before. Hell, he never really says it in the first place and it rolls of his tongue so naturally, like he knows exactly what it’s supposed to feel like, taste in his mouth. He nearly rolls the ‘l’ sound and Billy just wants to hear Harrington say his name until he _dies_ , melodramatic as all shit.

Harrington moves his hand back onto his shoulder and thumbs his way up to the sensitive spot right under his scent gland, where pressing into it even gently feels like agitating a bruise. It’s a dull ache, meant to remind him that getting bitten is the only thing that will really curb the throbbing in his veins, the pulsing under his skin.

“Just, _Christ_ , do something,” Billy tries, dragging his eyes up to Harrington’s again, “I dunno, get your hand on my dick, jerk me off, put your fingers to good fucking use,” and Harrington’s free hand thumbs skates down the valley of his abdominals, “god, I’d even let you fuckin’ kiss me at this point.”

He’s just spouting bullshit, will take what he can get if he can just _come_. He’s whiny, agitated, horny as all fuck. Even with the water running in rivulets down his spine, washing away any sticky evidence of slick on the undersides of his thighs, he’s still wet. Just watching Harrington’s mouth has him getting soaked.

And thank fucking god, thank Mary and Joseph, because Harrington drags his fingers through the groomed thatch of curly brown hair at the base of his cock, skirts his fingers over his shaft until they fall further south, just grazing his leaky cockhead. Harrington’s careful hand momentarily cups his balls, rolls his thumb down the seam, and then pauses at his perineum.

The skin there is tacky with slick but it’s nothing compared to the mess around his hole. He bites back a whimper, his whole body going rigid, when Harrington’s - ring? middle? - finger rubs over his entrance, over his wetness. The slow circles he’s drawing are dizzying, so close to sliding inside and satisfying that hunger deep in his belly.

“Harrington, fuck, _Steve_ -”

But Harrington, _Steve_ moves before he can formally bitch, and he nearly whispers, “I got you, I got you,” with such sincerity that Billy’s bones ache hearing it.

It’s a tone that’s so private and intimate that it feels as though it’s been reserved just for him.

The hand resting under his pulse point, under his scent gland, comes to hold the back of his neck, dips his head to the side. Harrington’s staring at his mouth hungrily and keeps tonguing at his bottom lip. Makes Billy mimic the action and paw at Harrington’s shoulders.

“C’mon man, throw me a bone here,” he grits out.

Billy’s voice sounds too whiny, too pitchy and needy, to his own ears. But Harrington’s fingers are so _close_ to where he needs them, just stroking and barely dipping in, it’s driving him fucking insane.

“Tell me where you want them,” Harrington tells him. “ _C’mon_ , lemme hear you.”

He strokes his fingers through the mess between Billy’s legs, wets the pads of them as he dips them in just _so,_ and Billy’s just fucking _gone_. Just like that, with Harrington’s fingers barely breaching his hole, voice caught on a choked-off moan, Billy comes.

It catches him by surprise, a complete shock to the system. And with Harrington so close to him, the two pressed together flush, his come hits Harrington’s lower stomach and paints it milky white in an array of splatters.

It takes him a minute to catch his breath and through through hooded lids, eyes the mess he’s made on the alpha leaning over him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he manages hoarsely.

Even though he got to come, fucking _finally_ , he’s still high strung and stretched taught. The edge that comes with the first day of heat has yet to leave him, unsatisfying as a sneeze that dies just before it hits, an itch that doesn’t go away when you scratch.

Harrington’s hand is still pressed between his legs when he finally speaks again, eyes blown all wide in disbelief. “Holy _shit_ , I barely touched you and you just…   _Jesus_. _”_

But it wasn’t enough and Harrington needs to keep going or else they’re literally going to get caught wrapped up in each other like this.

So Billy swallows hard, difficult with the arousal thrumming in his veins and the steam choking them, and takes ahold of Harrington’s wrist while his eyes stay trained on the guy’s flush cheeks and glassy eyes.

“Keep going,” he pleads hoarsely, “make me come again.”

Harrington manages to nod a little jerkily in an attempt to try to keep his composure. God knows Billy is. Luckily Harrington doesn’t break the spell over them by talking and just crowds him up against the wall, out of the spray so it hits Harrington’s bare calves and the tips of Billy’s toes.

Those tricky fingers aren’t quite close enough, still. It’s frustrating, even when Harrington’s leaning in like he’s gonna work his neck with careful sucks, kisses and bites, just out of the immediate vicinity of his scent gland.

But Harrington doesn’t start necking him, no, he fucking positions himself so his free hand is no longer cupping the back of his neck.

Harrington ducks in and fucking _kisses_ him. And Billy doesn’t protest for a goddamn _second_.

Kissing him right back, their mouths barely open so their lips, dry on wet, make sweet friction as they slide past each other. And it shouldn’t be sexy but it _is_ , and Harrington’s immediately sinking sharp teeth into his bottom lip and giving it a tug.

He can’t stop the pathetic moan that he releases into Harrington’s welcoming mouth, not when the guy’s tongue expertly lines the seam of his lips before it dips in, licks and samples him.

Harrington slips a finger in while he’s distracted, just _one,_ and almost _growls_ , dangerous and low, when Billy has to dig his nails into Harrington’s bicep to stay steady, to stay standing even with all his weight pitched back against ceramic tiling.

Just as the one curls, experimental, a second finger joins, the two of them scissoring him open gently, knuckles catching on his rim. He’s starving for it, dripping hot down Harrington’s palm and wrist, can’t fucking _breathe_ due to the bite, the fire behind each searing kiss traded between them, all the steam encapsulating them.

“ _Fuck.”_

“ _Jesus_ , you’re so fucking hot,” Harrington says against his mouth, “so tight, so _wet_ , wanna fuck you so _bad_.”

A third finger slips in effortlessly, curls right into Billy’s spot. His body feels like it’s carrying an electric current, feels lit up with sensation, like each drag of Harrington’s fingers deep inside him and each slide of his lips, his teeth, is going to get him to burst from overstimulation.

It’s like he’s suspended in the sensation.

It’s absolute heaven, really, Billy would gladly die this way, with his cock still hard and pinned between their bodies, sliding through the tacky mess branding Harrington’s toned, freckled abdomen in creamy white; with Harrington’s open, pink mouth trailing kisses from his lips down his jaw; with Harrington’s wicked, tricky fingers spreading him open and filling him up, prodding at his spot with clever accuracy and ease, like he’s been doing this his whole life.

And it’s not just Harrington’s touch and smell that has him hooked, it’s the amount of care he seemingly puts into each movement, making everything dangerously intimate. Anything with too much thought or care or affection — it usually sets him on-edge, gets him anxious and boiling under the surface.

It’s never felt like something he should or _could_ have. He can’t be bound to it, by it.

It’s terrifying, how he’s so at ease with the care and how it pacifies all the aches his heat births in him. Headache gone, burning skin soothed, he’s caught up in the feeling of _Harrington_ and everything he can offer. It’s calming, has him feeling safe to the point it starts to unsettle him but he shoves the thought away, dropkicks it to the back of his brain to dwell on later.

Harrington starts to suck a mark low on his neck when he’s snapped out of his thoughts.

“Don’t,” he huffs, oxygen starved, “just don’t leave marks. They can’t show up.”

And Harrington stills his fingers and stops working his neck to meet his eyes, even though he looks dopey and stupidly high on hormones - and maybe he’d laugh if he wasn’t so damn turned on - and nods, starts going softer. Harsh sucks become gentle, open-mouthed kisses and bites shift into slow drags and careful presses of sharp teeth.

“Sorry,” he says sheepishly.

“S’fine just like, _keep_ _going_ , everyone’s gonna be back soon.”

Harrington does just that. His movements restart and pleasure overtakes Billy again. Harrington’s fingers open and spread, stroke him from the inside. Each twitch and caress pools more heat in the pit of his stomach, has his spine tingling.

“Think you can take one more, baby?”

 _Baby_ , oh, he likes that. He really likes that. _Loves_ how easily it rolls off Harrington’s tongue. Wants Harrington filling him to the brim with his thick cock, stretching him full with his knot and his come and holding his hips in a vice grip while he gasps out a mantra of _baby baby baby_ in his ear like he’s reciting a prayer, begging for mercy.

Again, terrifying as it is enticing, like getting a taste of forbidden fruit, because he’s never actually let an alpha _fuck_ him and he’s never been so quick to just throw his inhibitions away if Harrington just _asked_.

So Billy just licks his lips and nods stupidly. “Uh-huh.”

Harrington withdraws his fingers and he whines all pathetic and high in the back of his throat, _really_ pathetic, but the desperate keen makes Harrington’s cock jump against his hip, a reminder that Harrington’s hard too, and he hasn’t come yet. His cock, thick and velvety against the slight dip of Billy’s hipbone, drools a few lazy beads of precome.

He _really_ wants to butter Harrington up and ask him, sugar sweet, if he can just tuck his cock inside instead of his fingers, _pretty please with a cherry on top_.

Four blunt, wet fingertips then press back against his hole and he hooks one leg over Harrington’s hip as he presses down on his hand, warm and wet with slick. Billy’s soaking down his thighs and Harrington’s not helping the situation, is nearly pulling the slick out of him with each drag and sweep of his fingers.

“Wish you’d fuck me, like _really_ fuck me,” he gasps, “want your cock in me so _bad_.”

“Billy, _fuck_ -”

And he keeps going, can’t _stop_. “I want you to fill me up, want your fucking _knot._ ”

Harrington just kisses him again, slow and languid, then coos at him all sweet, “Not now baby, gotta get you home.”

And there he is again with the _baby_ and he doesn’t know how he’s going to handle it when he’s back on dangerously rocky footing with the alpha and never gets to hear that word leave his candy-coated mouth again.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he nearly sobs, desperately pawing at the tense muscles in Harrington’s shoulders and arms, barely holding on for the ride.

Each movement of the fingers inside him sparks more heat to fill him, the ache in his joints and tendons subsiding to bearable. Harrington’s fingers work fast, deliberate, prying choked moans out of his throat. Just twists of his wrist, careful curls, deftly fucking inside like he would with his cock.

And the noises coming from where Harrington’s hand meets Billy’s entrance are obscene, slick and loud over the shower spray hitting the grimy tiled floor. He’s so _wet_ , he can’t help it. Doesn’t think it’s ever been this bad. Harrington’s fingers are probably pruny with it.

It turns him on that much more though, the fact that Harrington has him this wrecked with just his fingers inside, kissing him all sweet and calling him _baby._  Usually he needs a hand on his throat, a thumb digging into his pulse point and nails carving his hips to get him within the _vicinity_ of being turned on.

Maybe betas just can’t satisfy that _itch_.

Harrington grips his thigh then, holds him up so effortlessly with one hand as he starts fucking his fingers in even harder, knuckles catching on his stretched rim so it _pulls_ , and he gasps, sharp. He feels it _everywhere_. His body knows they’re only fingers, not the thick, dripping alpha cock that would fill him perfectly and give him what he’s begging for, but with his spot getting rammed into so expertly, he just takes it.

Through the haze, Billy briefly wonders if Harrington did this when he was still with Princess Wheeler. Thinks about how he would probably get his hand up her skirt and kiss her neck, call her _sweetheart_ and _honey_ and ask her how good it felt as he curled his fingers into her spot, pressed into her clit with his thumb and worked her over dripping and wet.

Jealousy curls in his gut like magma and finally he frees himself from the last of his restraint, stops panting and openly _keens_ into Harrington’s neck at one particularly sweet jab to his spot. His whole body tenses and he’s right there, toeing the edge.

“‘m gonna come again,” he bites out, and through hooded eyes he can see Harrington smirk, even as flushed and turned on he is, “just keep going, _fuck_.”

Harrington kisses him again, this time with a little more bite, and his fingers go in with more force. The wet _smack smack_ of his knuckles on wet skin echoes out between them, heard over the spray of the water and the two of them breathing heavy.  

Suddenly teeth scrape over the sharp curve of his jaw and tug at his ear lobe and the hard, thick cock pinned up against his own really starts drooling clear, getting his stomach and hip sticky with pre, and that’s it for him.

Billy whines out a, “ _Steve_ ,” and clings to him, Harrington’s teeth on his skin and hands on, fingers _in,_  as he comes. He’s practically shaking as a few milky spurts shoot up his abdomen, the rest dribbling in bursts out of his tip and down to the wet floor.

He’s quivering so hard that they have to stay like that for a few moments. Harrington’s fingers are still tucked inside of him but have since stilled, and he pulls them out slowly with a slick _pop_ , gently lowers Billy’s leg from around his hip but doesn’t let go of him.

Harrington keeps his hand on his hips to keep him upright as he desperately tries to lower his rabbiting heart rate, takes in deeps gulps of steam as his eyes refocus. The sight in front of him is really something straight out of divinity — Harrington, _Steve_ holding him up by his hips, cock hard and stained an angry red, panting and flushed from arousal and hot water. Fucking _godlike_.

Luckily Billy’s heat has temporarily been curbed, just enough that he can actually string sentences together without his brain feeling like molasses, his thoughts expanding to more than _Harrington_ and _come_ and _breed_.

He’s probably got enough time to get himself home, but only if he leaves in the next couple of minutes and drives a _bit_ above the speed limit. He’s sated for the moment, still feels a little shaky and his muscles are spasming with the dregs of orgasm, but at least he’s not cramping and burning up at the moment.

And they don’t have the time for it now, but Harrington’s cock looks _achingly_ hard and Billy still wants to get it in his mouth if he can, if anything to say _thanks_ . But he also wants to get down on his knees and push Harrington up against the wall, suck his cock until he comes thickly down his throat, biting back moans while his dexterous fingers tangle themselves in Billy’s damp curls, because he _can_ and he’s not going to waste this chance opportunity.

Without even realizing it Billy’s already sinking down. His knees hit cool, damp tile and he looks up at Harrington through long lashes and gets a hand on him before he can protest. But then Harrington cups his cheek, thumbs along his cheekbone all tender like before.

“We gotta get you home,” he strains, “I’ll be fine, seriously -”

Billy just thumbs a sticky glob of pre away and sucks it between his lips, thick and a tad salty. “Wanna suck your cock,” he says, maybe pouting a little, bratty. His dick might be temporarily softened and he’s got a gap of relief before his hormones have him incapacitated again, but he’s still got some slick drying between his legs and he still wants to feel Harrington’s come hit the back of his throat before the opportunity passes him. “I can be quick.”

Harrington whines, a note of impatience there, but moves his hips forward an inch and lowly says, “ _Quick_.”

Not like the guy’s _desperate_ at all now and Billy’s inner omega _doesn’t_ preen at the fact that he’s got an alpha this worked up.

So Billy gets to it and sucks like a man who loves his work, one hand holding Harrington’s hip while the other squeezes around his base and works what little he can’t fit in. If he wasn’t so out of practice he could easily take the girth down his throat, but he hasn’t been able to really have this in fucking _months_ and Harrington’s fucking _big_.

His tongue teases the slit while he sucks, hums around the thickness and swallows him down, bobs his head and eyes Harrington’s blissed out expression while pride swells in his chest. He gently squeezes his balls and gets a please growl to rumble out of Harrington’s chest.

The blowjob itself quick and messy and maybe not his best work because he’s got a mix of spit and precome running down his chin but he’s _enthusiastic_ as shit about given the opportunity, along with the grounding weight of Harrington’s cock filling his mouth.

It barely takes any time at all but he can’t really hold that against Harrington, all high on the pheromones Billy’s giving off and they’re _both_ in a fucking rush, the clock on the wall counting down their remaining time together. They’re down to under ten minutes until the bell rings and their teammates inevitably file into the locker room.

So when Harrington comes, Billy closes his eyes and savors it.

Harrington hisses through his teeth, one hand stilling in Billy’s hair while the muscles in his stomach quiver, and he releases heavy on the back of Billy’s tongue. He breathes heavy, freckled chest rising and falling rapidly, but then he takes a glance at the clock. _Shit_ are they cutting it close.

Moving back, Harrington gently untucks his cock from Billy’s lips, does it nice and slow so a strand of spit ties them together. Billy swallows dreamily, nearly licks his lips at the taste, some salt and tang there, and beams upwards, using that cocky panty-dropper smile he pulls off scarily well. Beaming like he got away with murder.

And what does Harrington do? He gently tugs Billy upright and drags him into the water. It’s cooler now, a shock to the system, and Harrington gives him this _look_ , all hesitant and doe eyed. Billy doesn’t get it for a second, just looks at him stupidly, but then Harrington’s hands are on him and _oh_ , okay.

Quickly he goes about getting the dried come off of his stomach, slipping a careful hand between his legs and washing the sticky remnants of slick away with his fingers, trying to make as little contact as possible with the more _sensitive_ areas. Billy has to mute a little moan in the back of his throat when his hole is ghosted over.

As quickly as he works, Harrington is tedious and careful. It’s as if he’s tending to wounds instead of getting rid of post-coital evidence. Like he actually fucking thumbs at a dab of come on Billy’s bottom lip and slips it sweetly into his mouth. Billy makes sure to drag his teeth around the digit as he sucks it off, grinning mean. He kind of wants to kiss the guy again and it might just be more hormones bubbling to the surface, but either way — he wants to and he thinks he’s allowed as long as they’re wrapped in this moment.

So he does — kiss Harrington, that is. Slow and sweet, water running over them in light rivers with flickering fluorescent lights hanging over them.

He bites at Harrington’s lip and gets a, “careful, I gotta get you _home_ ,” in response.

Billy nods because he’s _right_ , exasperated but still, they can’t start something else here. Not _now_ anyway. But Billy does let Harrington’s careful hands lather his body and massage his scalp with the provided soap and shampoo.

It’s just more intimacy that would usually have him agitated and curling away from any foreign touch. But honestly, Billy’s enjoying it, thoroughly. Lets himself be pampered, lets the omega be sated and soothed. With each slide of Harrington’s fingers over his skin, every careful look he gives him, something warm settles in his bones. It’s not hot and fizzing, electric like arousal, or the simmering heat of anger that he nearly always feels under his skin, no. It’s something grounding and comforting, a salve to his afflictions.

Jesus, he’s slipping into it so _compliantly_ , so easy and submissive he’s nearly purring.

And that’s _terrifying_.

But then Harrington retracts his touch and gives him one last once over. “Do you think you can drive yourself home or do you need me to take you?”

It’s a splash of cold water. A wake up call back to reality.

As much as he’d like Harrington to drive him home, maybe play with fire a bit in the privacy of his locked bedroom with everyone away or park behind the house and get fingered again in the cramped backseat of the Camaro, but he’s possessive of his baby and doesn’t want to leave her behind, or have Harrington in the driver’s seat.

“I’ll be fine, pretty boy.”

Harrington doesn’t look sure but he keeps his mouth shut and nods. Purses his lips twice, looks towards the locker room entrance, turns the water off. “Okay. Take your stuff and get to your car quick. If you sneak around the band room, you can get to the parking lot faster. I can deal with the shit with the attendance office.”

Billy snorts, tries to be dismissive, a little terrified in this momentary clarity that _Harrington’s_ going to deal with everything. The guy’s hot and he’s got some definitive physical talents outside of basketball, sure, but he’s sappy, cares too much. A heart on his sleeve type. Everything’s feather light and sealed with a kiss with him and Billy can’t really afford to let himself get pulled into that.

Just, Billy’s _not_ here for feelings.

He’s not here to fall in love and become some stereotype where he gets bitten by the first alpha that looks in his direction with an inkling of kindness and ends up tethered to them forever, round with his pups on the off-chance they play their cards right. He’s not here to be charmed and romanced — Harrington’s hot and _convenient_ , he tells himself. Just a tool to get him through this.

He just took the gentle touches because it came with the territory.

“Alright, alright, whatever,” he says and he waves Harrington off as he starts off to get a towel and get himself dressed fast enough that he can quickly sneak off to his car without the rest of the team seeing him.

He catches the lost look on Harrington’s face as he dresses, but he tries not to think about it. He just focuses on getting his clothes on before he’s really dry. His curls hang limply and drip down his neck but it doesn’t matter. The prickling in his fingertips is already returning and the bell’s going to ring in like, a _minute_ so he’s got to book it _now_. But Harrington’s still there, has the water turned back on and is properly washing himself.

He’s turned to face the wall so all Billy can see is the pale expanse of his freckled back, his hair darkened with water and hitting the tips of his shoulders, and the solid muscles in his legs flexing with each minute moment. Not to mention his pale little ass with a small smudge-like birthmark high on one cheek, but that’s not what’s _important_ or worth cataloging right now.

The bell rings and Billy is going to leave him without another word, go back to how things have been between them, but he pauses just outside the door. Cool air whips at his face and he sucks on his teeth.

“Steve,” he says, and Harrington turns toward him, eyes owlish and wide.

“Yeah?”

“I’m still going to kick your ass in if you tell anyone about this.”

Harrington _actually_ smiles at that, like Billy won’t fucking do it, but also like he ever _would_ say something about this. He just fucking _smiles_ and something in Billy’s chest feels knotted up.

All he says is, “Don’t worry man, I believe you.”

And when Billy comes back on Monday, glowing post-heat and nearly mauled by various junior and senior girls babying him and asking if he’s feeling any better - and _honestly_ he’s bone tired from spending _three fucking days_ jerking off to memories of lithe, pale fingers and the drag of teeth on his skin - Harrington spots him from down the hallway and smiles knowingly while standing in front of his locker.

He’s got Wheeler babbling to the side of him but he still does it, clear as day, and despite the fawning crowd of girls around him, Billy smiles right back.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, i want to apologize for taking so long to get this out! i was just so dissatisfied with what i had down at numerous points, and i've done so many re-writes and re-edits, that i've lost count at this point. this turned into a hell of a monster, like, i thought 11k was excessive for the first part, but i really have no excuse for what happened here. i may have overworked it but, well, it's done.
> 
> i also softened billy up a little more than i intended, but he's pretty *in love* and on a hormonal trip, so i think it's slightly okay. this fic is definitely very explicit, but i also went heavy-handed with the fluff as well *shrugs*.
> 
> but anyway -- this is a late new year's gift for everyone that's patiently waited nearly five months for a conclusion, and for everyone that's expressed interest when i've been a little shit and posted previews. 
> 
> and lastly, please heed the tags i added! we get into some kink territory i have not personally written yet, but am very much into, so enjoy the filth and self indulgence.

Billy thumbs through soft cotton, scratchy wool, pressed linens. There’s far too many striped shirts in Steve’s closet tucked amongst his pastel polos and dark sports coats and these thin tees and tanks he dons when it’s warm and sunny out. Right now it all smells too strongly of flowery fabric softener to suit Billy’s tastes, though.

A brief knock on the doorframe alerts him of Steve’s return from the kitchen and when he re-enters the room, he’s got two beers balanced between his fingers on one hand. He’s smiling fondly, bathed in sunlight from the open curtains and dressed in cotton shorts that reveal the pale tops of his thighs and an old Hawkins High track hoodie, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It’s a little ill-fitted from past growth spurts, the worn cotton blend taut over his chest, and Billy can see a good inch of his bare stomach peeking out from the bottom as well.

He could probably convince Steve to buy a real crop top at the mall.

“Hey, don’t take that blue baseball shirt, I wanna wear it to the barbecue on Sunday,” Steve says, setting their sweating beers down on the bedside table.

Billy just winks at him over his shoulder before returning to the task at hand — just trying to find something that feels _and_ smells right. Something he can breathe in and immediately sense _Steve_. But, he does bypass the aforementioned shirt even though it’s worn and soft under his fingers and smells like home.

“‘s called a _raglan_.”

He knows Steve’s sticking his tongue out or rolling his eyes, something childish that’s just so _Steve_ , but he doesn’t give him the pleasure of turning around. He continues to rifle through the ridiculously preppy assortment of shirts hanging in Steve’s walk-in until he’s ready to give up and look through the few ratty old tees he keeps in his dresser and wears to bed.

“I still don’t have that grey polo - the one with the dark blue stripes - and that, uh, that black t-shirt. Do you still have ‘em?”

And Billy does — stowed away in the inside of his fitted sheet under the springy mattress in the extra room he’s been living out of since graduation. Same place they were hidden when he’d originally stolen them and stuffed them under his own mattress back at his dad’s place. He doesn’t need to keep either of them now that he’s living _with_ Steve, especially with his belongings sitting in borrowed furniture in the guest room down the hall and his legs twined with Steve’s every night while they share body heat and a full size mattress.

Billy’s just holding onto the shirts for the few nights Steve’s parents _are_ home between business trips and spontaneous traveling, because he doesn’t want to risk being caught being spooned in Steve’s bed, biting the hand that almost literally feeds him by seemingly _corrupting_ the Harringtons’ straight-laced baby boy. And Mrs. Harrington - _it’s_ _Elaine,_ _sweetheart_ \- although sweet and loving in her own off-kilter way, is a neurotic, glass-of-wine-for-breakfast type that definitely has no qualms rifling through drawers or pressing her ears to locked doors.

He doesn’t think she’d care _too_ much, but Steve’s dad would definitely have something to say to that, he wants to stay away from the fucking _prick_ as much as he can, while still being able to actually _stay_ in the house.

Billy goes to fetch the stolen shirts anyway, figuring he can at least snag new ones for any emergencies. The spiced, crackling fire smell of Steve that had once seeped into the fibers has been slowly overshadowed with the dusty smell of mattress and box spring anyway.

As he grabs them out from under the mattress, he thumbs over the worn fabric. The black shirt is one of his favorites. It’s just a plain black tee, sure, thin and fading with use, but it holds a permanent place in his heart. Steve had worn it during their fight at the Byers’, and as much as Billy tries to avoid thinking about that night, Steve looked so fucking _good_ ; when Steve sucked Billy’s cock in the baseball dugout three days after Billy had returned from his first heat in Hawkins; and the first time they _really_ hooked up — the two of them wrapped up in each other in the cramped backseat of the Beamer, parked by the quarry back on the border of January, too desperate - but also too damn cold with the heater off - to get completely undressed.

Their mingling scents had sunk into the leather upholstery of Steve’s backseat and there were handprints on the windows for months afterwards. It had been feral and frantic, messy, latching onto each other’s skin, salty and beaded with sweat, with hungry mouths and blunt fingernails. Steve had that black t-shirt rucked up to his armpits while he slid home in Billy’s tight, wet heat for the first time and had angry red scratch marks running down every inch of his bared back for a week after, while Billy had a series of violently red bite marks and purple thumb prints littered down his hips and thighs.

(He’d also hit his head on the window and garnered a bruise from it while a giant circular smudge reappeared on the glass every time it got cold outside. Steve still thinks it’s fucking _hilarious_.

Back then though, they were still on the border of a fight eighty percent of the time, often threatening the other’s life with curt threats when they weren’t off together in secret exchanging bruising kisses and gasping out in pleasure when hands and mouths fell where they were desired most.

When Billy comes back into the room, he places the shirts on the top of Steve’s dresser and goes back to fruitlessly shuffling through the last of Steve’s closet to find something he can scent and keep on hand. He tugs on the sleeve of a teal crewneck and grimaces, hastily cards through knits and zip hoodies and the fine threading on Lacoste polos to no avail.

Picking at the loose seam on an old Christmas sweater and frowning, two strong arms suddenly circle around his middle and a chin comes to rest in the dip of his shoulder. Steve nuzzles into the harsh cut of his jaw, noses at the grating stubble there, scenting. Billy knows he must smell cloying and warm, all breezy lavender and sweet vanilla under his cologne, radiating it in thick waves.

“Don’t worry about finding things to scent with — you’ve already got me here. Besides, you’ll spend three nights alone like, _tops_ for the rest of summer with Mom and Dad coming and going so much. They’re not even coming back from Cabo ‘til the fourteenth.”

Billy wiggles back into Steve’s grasp, gyrating teasingly against the crotch of his shorts. “I know, I know. Just let me do my _thing_ , Harrington.”

“But you don’t _need_ to,” Steve chuckles, “‘cause I got the rest of the week off just for you, and when your heat hits, I’ll spoil you fucking _rotten_ , can give you the _whole_ Steve Harrington experience now that you’re here.”

“ _Steve Harrington experience_?”

“Yeah, the whole nine yards. I’ll make you pancakes for breakfast and give you massages when your back hurts and let you steal all the covers at night... maybe fuck you until you can’t move or remember your own _name_.”

Billy hums low in his throat, pleased. He can envision it already, curled up with Steve between silken sheets, getting fucked all hours of the day until his breath catches in his throat on every exhale and is leaking milky white down his thighs, full up of Steve’s come.

And he can, _will_ have it now, a freedom he can taste like the chlorine flavor of Steve’s lips when he snags a kiss from him while they wade in the pool, or like the dewy sweat he licks off Steve’s freckled neck when it’s especially hot out.

“I’ll think about it.”

“What, you’re gonna pass me up now?” Steve teases, coiling one golden curl around his index finger.

He pulls it taught until it rockets off his finger tip, bouncing back into formation.

Billy hums again, lower. “I have before, haven’t I?”

“But it never _lasted_ , if I remember correctly.”

And it’s true. Before Billy had tried to fight off the desperate need he felt for Steve both in _and_ out of heat, storming off when Steve offered help with blowing off some steam or making his heats easier by playing a repeat performance of their first unhinged tryst in the locker room, or possibly moving even a bit farther. But Billy always caved in the end.

He still feels the guilt of originally rejecting Steve weighing heavy in his heart and on his mind and is still kissing apologies into the ghosts of emotional bruises to make up for things past.

For years Billy had vowed that he wouldn’t cave to any alpha and had still clung to that idealism out of fear and internalized loathing and this disbelief he could be _loved_ until Steve had snapped at him and let him _know_ that wasn’t true.

He’d said, “ _God_ Hargrove, I don’t know why I like you so damn much when you’re such a fucking _dick_ ,” during a fight a few months earlier and knocked all the pins into place.

Just before that Billy had angrily shoved him out of the passenger side of the Camaro because Steve had been getting too _close_ and emotions had been running high for far too long, had Billy feeling cut open and gearing up to run again, ready to stick some bandaids on open wounds, when he’d knocked Steve onto the damp quarry grass to give him time to run.

But that time he _didn’t_ run away and he’s stupidly lucky he _hadn’t_.

Instead he clamored out of the driver’s side of the car, hauled Steve off the cool, dewy grass, and pulled him into a searing kiss.

“I’ll _think_ about it,” Billy repeats, dipping into a ruggedly low, sultry tone, “maybe I want you to make a game out of it this time, huh? Big, empty house, the thrill of the hunt and all? You wanna pin me and get me to _submit_?”

A trill of electricity shoots up his spine. Out of his heats, when they’re tucked away together, Steve has to work him into a near sobbing, panting mess whenever he wants to get him to truly submit, but neither of them has any complaints about it, have concreted their boundaries. Billy secretly preens at the extra attention he’s granted when he does let the omega in him take over, along with being coaxed into the floaty headspace that pulls his pleasure under a magnifying glass.

At the same time, Steve gets a thrill from being able to test the aggressiveness he’s tucked away for years, shoving away any traces of _true_ alpha predation in order to coax the few beta and omega girls he’d had into his car, his bed, the pool loungers on the back deck… but nevermind _them_ anymore.

“D’you _really_ wanna do that? You _bit_ me the last time I got you pinned.”

“It was a _reflex_ , Christ, don’t take it so personally. Besides, you had _your_ fingers in my goddamn mouth.”

Steve reaches up and pinches his left nipple through his t-shirt, making him hiss. “You were being _gross_ ; I was trying to get you to be quiet.”

“Excuse you, I’m _always_ on my best behavior, thank you very fucking much,” Billy snarks, “‘sides, I don’t care what you wanna do beforehand, as long as you fuck me good and hard when my heat actually hits.”

Steve gives his earlobe a toothy tug and a pleased growl rolls through his chest. “Mm, that I can do,” he nearly purrs, “fuck, I love you.”

 _I love you_. They can utter _those_ words a thousand times between empty study rooms in the library and locked car doors parked on farmland after dark - always followed by Steve’s _no take backs_ sealed with a wink and a kiss - and it’ll always throw Billy for a loop, remind him of how deep his feelings for Steve run, grounding him root-like.

Like, Billy hadn’t actually _meant_ for Steve to know how he really felt. He’d let his secret slip purely on _accident_ during a lust-fueled romp that had him bent over the Harringtons’ custom oak dining table and Steve’s slick-tacky fingers curled into his own as they fruitlessly clawed at the glossy, waxed wood.

Steve switches sides and tugs his earring between his teeth, reiterates, “ _l_ _ove you_ ,” and loudly presses dry, layered kisses into this ticklish spot under his ear, unrelenting until Billy says it back.

Billy pinches his side and gets out, “love you _too,_ ” between chuckles, “you fucking _dork_.”

It’s achingly sweet and would have him flustered and blustering if Steve did this out in public. A few months ago if Steve even tried to hold his hand for all of two seconds past the sanctum of locked doors, he’d be shoving him away. Now they whisper flirtatious messages of endearment and are constantly touching instead, and Billy no longer swerves away from Steve’s gentle hand or falls into a huffy, heated state of denial and panic every time Steve is intimate and honest with him.

Now he openly welcomes and craves Steve’s barrage of physical affection, all his appraisals and corny jokes and general lovestruck ridiculousness.

The last part is newer still, raw, comfort he’s still dipping his toe in, but rerouting all your autonomous responses after years of being hardwired to constantly be on the defense takes fucking _time_ , and Steve’s always assuring him he’s getting better and better at it.

Steve’s hair tickles his cheek as he starts to tug at another loose string and accidentally makes a tiny hole in the knitted fabric. The scent radiating off of him now is an answer to Billy’s own saccharine pheromones — earthy to keep him placated with spicy undertones to keep him on his toes.

Like the way the air feels thick and muggy before it rains — foreshadowing.

It means _I got you_ in more ways that one, a type of security Billy’s never had to fall back on.

“You smell really good right now,” Steve says then, “I mean you always do, but _now_ it smells like you’re already in heat.”

Billy furrows his brows and sniffs his shirt, leans back into Steve a little more, already feeling the familiar press of his hardening cock grinding against his backside, just _so_. “S’it that bad already?”

“Yeah, but it’s not _bad_ ,” and then Steve’s voice drops an octave, “makes me wanna hold you down right here, right now, and _fuck_ you.”

Billy shivers in response and wiggles back against Steve’s hips with a little more fervor. “Oh really?” he teases.

“Mm, yeah, and then you’re gonna smell like me for days afterwards, and everyone is gonna know you’re _mine_.”

Billy swallows down a groan as the possessive dip to Steve’s tone ricochets up his nerve endings.

At this rate he’ll be done with his heat less than twenty four hours by the time of the barbecue and he’s going to _reek_ of Steve. Everyone is going to be able to smell _alpha_ on his skin, a dead alert to everyone who doesn’t already know the specifics of their relationship - the only ones in on it being Henderson, Max, Joyce Byers, the chief, and _possibly_ the chief’s kid, Billy’s not sure about her yet - but the panic alarm that would usually be sounding off in his head remains silent, and instead a tingle of excitement flutters through him.

Before, he’d be a _little_ more than concerned but he figures by now that the unaware half of Steve’s patchwork family would just cock an eyebrow up in semi-surprise but ultimately take it for what it is. Stranger occurrences than Billy worming his way into their group have happened. Far too many things have gone bump in the night, _literally_ , for them to have the right to be concerned.

If Billy’s honest with himself, it’d be fucking _perfect_ now if the two of them showed up to the Byers’ with fresh marks starting to scar on the sides of their necks, just to squash any suspicious and solidify the truth, that they’d be _mates_.

And he’s pretty fucking sure that he’s ready for that leap.

“I wouldn’t be _completely_ opposed to that,” he croons. “Especially if you can guarantee you’ll hold up your end of the bargain, _pretty boy_.”

Grinning, warm eyes shining, Steve nuzzles his nose into his cheek. “Oh I _think_ I can do just that for you, baby.”

Billy then turns in Steve’s hold to eye him properly and drapes his arms over his shoulders. Plays with bangs, hairspray free for once, and the feathered strands of brown hair curling with length at the tops of his shoulders. There’s still an obvious weight tenting the crotch of Steve’s shorts, but it’s not going to take them anywhere, not right now, considering they’re going to be doing nothing but fucking the life out of each other for close to seventy-two hours once Billy’s heat hits.

They’ve got at least a day, probably less, and Steve’s the type to save his energy.

“You _do_ know what I’m trying to hint at, right?” Billy muses, and Steve squints. “Make me yours, y’know, fuck me, bite my neck, knot me? The whole shebang?”

And he knows it’s _insane_ , like they’re still fucking _kids_ , he may be eighteen and Steve’s nineteenth birthday is coming up in a few months but they’re fucking _kids_. They’ve still got all this personal shit to work through, Steve with his self doubt and anxiety and nightmares and Billy with his all encompassing _bullshit_ , but Billy’s _still_ willing to risk it. Grow together, all that corny shit.

He wants this despite his previous revulsion to the whole _fuck-claim-breed_ mindset omegas had drilled into their heads, practically recited nursery rhymes, he trusts Steve and knows soul-deep that he wants this too, craves the promise of _forever_.

Steve looks at him for a minute, searching for any traces of a joke. When he doesn’t find any, he leans in and kisses Billy softly. His lips are smooth with chapstick and he tastes like he already took a few nips off the beer he brought up, all malty and bitter.

“Serious?” he asks, once he pulls back.

“Dead serious.”

“...You’re not fucking with me right now, are you?”

Frowning, Billy deadpans, “ _S_ _teve_.”

Steve then takes a step back and sighs all dramatic like he always does, like he just _can’t fucking believe this,_ although it’s directed at one of the kids more often than not. Usually at Henderson or Princess Wheeler’s cranky kid brother — the kid is a fucking poster child for _teen angst._

“Billy, this is a _big_ deal,” Steve says, exasperated, as if Billy _doesn’t_ know that and he nearly bites his tongue not to fight his urge to needless retaliation, “like a _huge_ fucking deal. ”

For a moment Billy can’t believe how Steve’s reacting, was expecting him to be elated and ecstatic and ready to go _right here right fucking now_ but instead he’s all unsure and hesitant and nervously chewing on his lip as if it actually tastes good. Chewing at it like it’s not going to go bloody under his teeth and blot his tongue with the metallic sting of copper and salt.

Steve’s always unsteady and walks on eggshells like this when something serious pops up between them. Even now, when he doesn’t _really_ fucking hate her guts as much as he once did, Billy blames Nancy Wheeler for planting that sense of distrust and that overwhelming tentativeness deep in Steve’s head and heart. He can’t get huffy or anything when Steve’s like this either — then he goes on the defense and it becomes a fight neither of them are going to let the other finish.

He takes a breath and thumbs at Steve’s puffy bottom lip. It’s pink and pillowy under his thumb but he can already feel where Steve’s teeth had started digging in.

“Of course I mean it. I don’t _want_ anyone else but you, alright?” Billy insists, voice low. “I was _never_ going to let an alpha claim me, Steve, I would’ve rather fuckin’ _died_ than be claimed but when we started, y’know, getting _together_ , even when we were still fucking fighting all the time, I still only wanted _you_. I didn’t wanna try anything with anyone else, I didn’t want anyone else to even _touch_ me. I am dead fucking serious when I say that you’re _it_ for me. Game, set, fucking _match_.”

He feels himself close to vibrating from the anxiety, all cut open and exposed and also young, dumb and in-love like some rom-com protagonist in those cheesy teen movies Steve drags him to, but it’s the _truth_.

Steve’s all pink-cheeked and scared, looks like a lost baby deer with its ears pressed back, but he does nod after a beat, which is a good sign that at least his heart’s still beating. He looks a little taken aback, maybe stunned by frank, blatant honesty he wasn’t expecting.

“I mean,” Steve swallows, chuckles, “ _you_ are for me, too. It, the one, etcetera. I just want _you_ to be sure, Billy, s’all. Don’t want you to regret it, or _me_.”

And as much Billy wants to tell him he’s stupid, that _you’re being an idiot and I already told you wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t mean it,_ he’s shedding the bad habits - a snake slithering out of its old skin - for Steve and takes a beat. Rolls the words around his mouth and gets a feel for the right letters and how they sit on his tongue.

“I _am_ sure. And for the record, I do _not_ regret picking you, not for a goddamn second. Not even when you put fucking Duran Duran or Chicago in my tape deck or wear those awful pastel sweaters your mom got you in fuckin’ _Paris_ , or when you screamed like a little girl when I threw you in the pool last weekend and then pushed me when I was _fully dressed_ an hour later, like a goddamn brat.”

Steve absolutely melts, butter in a pan, his mopey little frown slipping back into a cheeky grin.

He works his hands under the bottom of Billy’s shirt, untucking it from the back of his jeans, cool fingers pressing into warm skin. It’s just an old button-up with light blue stripes that run vertically but Steve loves it, and loves pulling at the collar to kiss him or fiddling with the snaps to get it _off_.

“First off, you love ‘Hungry Like A Wolf’ _and_ that orange cashmere sweater my mom got me _and_ you totally thought me getting you back was funny, and we both know it,” Steve tells him with a smirk, and none of it’s a lie. “But alright, point taken. And just so you know, I’m _still_ gonna ask before I do it, so you can’t get all snippy with me just because I wanna be sure.”

Billy rolls his eyes, all exaggerated so Steve will paw at his hips under his shirt and tug at his earring with his teeth.

“Deal.”

Steve pinches his hips under his shirt, nips at his earlobe and gently pulls him back towards the bed with a pleased grin on his face.

 

* * *

 

It’s so _hot_.

It’s also six in the fucking morning, the sky bursting orange and pink on the horizon line, chasing away the blue-black of night, and it’s dewy, comfortably cool, and barely seventy degrees outside yet.

It’s too fucking early for this.

Billy’s cocooned in Steve’s sheets in the blue-black of Steve’s bedroom when a wave of nausea startles him awake, signaling that he’s got to get up _now._  As he shakes off the drowsiness, the queasiness rolls through his system and he groans into his pillow and agitatedly kicks the sheets off — doesn’t want them _touching_. Even the soft, papery cotton makes his skin tingle with itchy irritation and feel ten degrees hotter. He can only ever stand the feeling of it when he grinds down and gets some pressure on his cock as he rocks into the mattress, so he does just that.

As he desperately rolls his hips, he gets a hand down under the waistband of his briefs and presses up, bypassing his hard, dripping cock completely. His fingers dip over his hole and he’s not leaking, not _yet_ at least, but will be soon.

“Steve,” he grits out, “Christ, _Harrington_.”

Steve doesn’t stir. He’s sleeping soundly just inches away, dead to the world — how he sleeps when he’s completely at peace, no nightmares about gnashing, bloodied teeth and endlessly dark, musty tunnels chasing him awake and putting smudged purple thumbprints under his eyes.

Now though, Steve’s laying on his side facing the darker end of the bedroom, snoring softly with one arm tucked under his pillow while the other is draped haphazardly over his face. Usually he’d let Steve rest and admire him through the strips of sunlight peaking past the curtains, but with his alpha laying there peacefully and none the wiser while his _heat_ hits him, Billy’s getting kind of pissed off.

With a groan, he says Steve’s name again, more forcefully and a little louder - “Steve, _baby._ ” - but he still doesn’t stir. He just snuffles into his pillow and moves to pull the blanket tighter over himself. Really, it’d be cute any other day and would maybe garner a playful pinch to the thigh or even a feather-light kiss to the cheek.

But today there’s no goddamn _time._

Billy reaches out blindly and smacks Steve in the arm, hard and open-palmed, causing him to jerk and let out a high-pitched yelp as he gets yanked out of his peaceful, deep sleep.

“Christ, _what_ ,” Steve gripes, turning over so he’s facing Billy even though his eyes are very obviously pinched shut in irritation, but then he lets out this little huff, breathes in and opens his eyes, stupidly goes, “ _oh._ ”

Billy nearly smacks him again but decides against it because his arms already feel weighed down, heavy like lead anchors tethering him to the seafloor of rumpled blankets. So instead of giving Steve another good whack, he rolls flat onto his back and grumbles up at the ceiling.

“I didn’t think it was gonna hit this early but it _did_ , so you need to get up and help me out here.”

Steve nearly falls trying to detangle himself from the sheets, pupils blown wide like ink to water, and gets a move on. Thinking ahead the night before, they’d already prepped and have towels and water glasses and fucking _food_ at their disposal, because Billy hates being left for even a second between rounds of lovemaking, even if Steve’s wrung dry and just needs a sandwich or something to keep him going.

As if Steve isn’t _insatiable_ already.

Steve kicks the blankets away with a grumble and goes around the room to seal any parted curtains, then skirts around the bed to spread the towels out across the duvet in a half-conscious daze. Billy just watches him under heavy lids and thick lashes, fights not to whine. He grinds down against the gentle scratch of cotton sheets again and he’s inches away from begging to come already, gripping the sides of the mattress.

Desperate, his tone lilts with whininess, goes all gravelly when he brokenly begs, “c’mon, _please_.”

“Give me one second, baby. Shh.”

Billy growls irritatedly in response and his humps into the mattress like he’s got a vendetta with it, but the slight grating motion alleviates the pain in teaspoon amounts and temporarily satiates the hungry mantra of _fuck come breed_ echoing in his ears.

The bed dips and suddenly Steve’s on all fours over him. It doesn’t matter that he’s hypersensitive and that the sheets itch his skin, pin pricked with sharp tingles like fresh stinging nettles — all that matters is that Steve’s hands are immediately planted on his hips and tugging at the waistband of his underwear.

“I got you,” Steve says soothingly, “up.”

Billy obeys and sluggishly lifts his hips, grunts as the worn cotton journeys down his legs and finds its destination on the floor. He catches Steve kicking his own briefs off before Steve’s effortlessly holding him up to move a towel under them.

The atmosphere in the room is stifling and stuffy and Billy feels like he’s choking on it, their scents mingling together in the still air, _not enough_ and _too much_ at the same. Steve’s delicate touches on his legs as he gets on his knees are maddening. Between Billy’s thighs, the mattress sinks deeper as Steve finally situations himself. He’s on his stomach now, mouthing along Billy’s fevered skin and going molasses slow, taking his dear sweet time with it.

Steve’s teeth drag over that one sensitive spot on his inner thigh, marked time and time again with predatory precision, and he gasps. He’s starting to get wet now and his cock bobs over the smooth muscles of his stomach, glistening damp at the head from arousal.

Steve likes to do this when he’s in heat, get him wet and messy and desperate before he fucks him, before he even gives him some _fingers_. It’s a twisted little game and sometimes it _really_ pisses Billy off, makes Steve’s cock sink into him so _sweetly,_ makes that first _real_ orgasm come with bone-deep satisfaction.

“God, make me _come_ already.”

Steve gently bites into taught flesh. “Give me a second here.”

 _No_ , Billy wants to protest, but Steve is always keener to reward when he’s well behaved, so he gives Steve a moment, his eyes closed, revels in the little touch he’s granted — Steve’s fingerprints pressed into his bare thighs, the dented crescents of his teeth marking grooves in his skin, the slow drag of lazy kisses up his hips. Then there’s warm breath ghosting over his lower stomach.

Steve noses the sparse trail under his navel leading south and slides a hand through the light brown curls at his base. His tongue suddenly appears and lines a thick stripe up the underside of his cock, making Billy hiss. Steve immediately swallows him down whole and holds him captive in his mouth as he laps over the girth with quick twirls of his tongue.

He’s much better now than when they started fooling around, his tongue previously trained to only pleasure other bits of anatomy. He would easily choke, pull back and cough with a trail of spit running down his chin, eyes watering with the strain, but now he can suck dick like a champ, could make _bank_ off it.

And with the hot suction of Steve’s mouth on him, Billy can already feel the inevitable edge of orgasm, a hot coil winding _tighter tighter_ in his stomach, all the pleasure in his nerves spiking to dangerously high levels.

“Gonna come,” Billy grits.

The first one always _does_ hit embarrassingly fast.

Steve works him a little, sliding down more so the tip of his cock slides down his throat just barely, and moans around the thick of it. He barely moves, just lightly bobs up and down more like he’s nodding his head, and when he pinches one peaked, brown nipple, Billy shudders and spills over.

It’s hardly relief. His climax bubbles out of him weakly and it’s like a single hiccup — just a sudden gasp and then it _stops_. It’s disappointing and he doesn’t even soften in Steve’s mouth.

But Steve knows how he is in heat and audibly swallows his mess and sits up, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He splays one hand above the sweat beading low on Billy’s stomach and thumbs at the dip of his abs, ghost-like and so gentle it _stings_ , making Billy whimper.

“Does it hurt?” Steve asks him.

He nods, “Just _fuck me._ ”

Billy’s already losing himself. His mind is quickly being wiped from the fever and soon it’ll be absent of nearly all thought save _Steve._ He won’t be totally coherent again until the last day. There will be fleeting instances before then where he’ll be mildly clear headed but that only occurs during the briefest of pauses where Steve has to actually _stop_ fucking him because he’s just a tad too oversensitive, shaky and even _teary_ at times, but they’re always back at it again the instant Billy gives the okay.

Steve fucking _chuckles_ and if his limbs didn’t feel cemented to the bed Billy would have kicked him for it because everything aches _bone deep_ and deeper and his cock is still hard, throbbing and red even though he’s just come.

But then Steve’s leaning over to the bedside table and grabs a glass of water, then offers it to Billy. He’s not thirsty though, he’s starving to be filled up and fucked open, the only hunger in him a primal kind. He turns his nose up petulantly and makes a weak attempt to swat the glass away.

“ _Drink_ ,” Steve nearly growls then, “I don’t want you dehydrated and getting sick on me.”

It’s true, because when Billy’s getting fucked that’s literally _all_ he wants - even when he’s catching his brief between climaxes - and he’s more likely to ask for a cigarette than something to drink or a bite to eat. One time he really _did_ get sick from not drinking enough water and that mixed with the fever nearly had Steve calling a doctor in panic, had him refusing to get Billy off again until he had some liquids down and his fever was back to normal cyclical levels.

So Billy takes the cool glass to prevent a standoff and chugs about half of it before thrusting it back at Steve, who takes it from him with a hard scowl. Billy fights a shudder.

“ _Hey_ ,” Steve says roughly, all gritty and low, “you’re gonna give me one more like I _told_ you and _then_ I’ll fuck you.”

He just barely manages to nod in reply, knowing he looks absolutely _stupid_ , and Steve smiles a little wickedly, with his cheeks dimpling and his lips pursed together, swallowing down something poisonous and Steve cups his cheek, rubs over the rosy apple of it.

Then Steve tells him, “good boy.”

Billy’s inner omega outwardly _purrs_.

  
Steve only gets assertive, domineering like this when Billy’s in heat and not listening or pushing himself too far, and both of them _obviously_ love it. Steve definitely gets off on being a little more controlling - a little more _alpha_ \- if only because he sees what it does to an omega, _his_ omega, and Billy only lets himself go complacent and compliant, _submissive_ , during his heat because he’s spending it _with_ Steve.

Beforehand he would never dream of it, baring his neck or presenting himself, bending to an alpha’s will in or out of heat, but Steve _always_ leaves him feeling protected and cared for, so he makes an exception. While his hormones are frying his internal hardwiring and leaving him fever hot and near incapacitated with aching pleasure, he allows himself to sink into this more raw state. He briefly unbalances the even footing they have and lets Steve take the reins, lets himself cave into all their primal, carnal desires.

And it makes everything so much better when he just lets _go_. Completely relaxes. It’s just so _easy_ to slip into this state with Steve, to succumb to urges and instincts he’s spent most of his life fighting, just because there’s so much trust cemented there.

Steve taps Billy’s hip with two fingers and Billy weakly moves his leg to the side so Steve can settle between his thighs again, whimpers when Steve holds the taught muscle of his pinned leg in one warm hand. Steve hushes him with a gentle kiss to his knee and suddenly there are fingers prodding over his entrance and everything feels like it’s on _fire_.

“ _S_ _hit_.”

One finger circles his hole, just gliding through the slick already there, and he feels another blot dribble out of him onto Steve’s fingers and he involuntarily clenches up, goes even redder in the face, and hides behind one sweaty palm.

“Oh _Christ_.” Steve lets out a raspy breath and sighs, “you’re so _wet_.”

He even retracts his fingers and spreads two of them in a v-shape, shining in the faint darkness.

Billy chokes, embarrassed.

“Why won’t you just _fuck_ me already,” he whines then, feeling restless and clenching around nothing, which is fucking cruel, “‘m so empty, Steve, _please,_ give it to me.”

He doesn’t even need the prep during heat and at this point, doesn’t need it much at _all_ with how often they go at it. Steve just likes to tease him and get him riled up. Billy kind of wants to kick him and tell him that it’s a real dick move to pull during heat, but then Steve brings his wet fingers up to his mouth and _sucks,_  maintains eye contact as he cleans them like they’re something _tasty_.

He says, “Patience, baby.”

Then he kisses Billy’s nose, which is a bit too sweet for the circumstances they’re in, especially because Billy feels another trickle of slick leak out and thinks he might pass out if Steve doesn’t get to it like, _now_.

Head cloudy, Billy thinks he shouldn’t _have_ to be fucking patient right now, because everything hurts and he’s nauseous and overheated and his first orgasm was the most unsatisfying thing he’d ever experienced; like he couldn’t properly scratch an itch or his throat just got drier with each gulp of water. _Frustrating_.

Steve then lowers his hand to where Billy needs it most and just barely presses one finger against his perineum. Billy shudders and tries to grind back against his hand, trying to get him _in_.

He’s seconds away from straight-up begging to be filled, ready to stoop to levels he would be ashamed to admit later.

But Steve’s finger finally slips back inside like he senses Billy losing his mind and he starts fucking it in and out immediately, the movement aided with accumulated slick. Billy sighs as the slightest bit of relief starts to sweep through him, going more lax and the telltale ache in his gut calling for more. He doesn’t understand how or why Steve is being such a tease and so focused on dragging this out, making him arch his back and whine and hurt so _good_.

He could already be inside, pressed flush with his jutted hip bones kissing supple, rounded flesh; a dull knife cutting into a peach, juice wetting the edge on impact.

And suddenly a second and third finger work together in tandem and Billy nearly _sings_ when Steve pauses and stops jabbing inside to press directly into his spot and _stroke_.

He manages to choke out an uncharacteristically high, “ _fuck_ ,” and clutches at Steve’s hip with blunt fingernails, which only causes Steve to mimic the action faster. The initial tingle of his second orgasm makes his toes clench and Billy waits for it, just out of reach, to hit properly. This one will alleviate the slightest bit of tension gripping his joints but the constant dull ache saturating his muscles and bones, deep down to his core, will stay buried in him for a bit longer.

Steve clicks his tongue and Billy watches through lidded eyes as Steve’s free hand, the one splayed across his fevered skin, takes ahold of his cock and grips him so softly. Billy breathes raggedly, like the breaths are being punched out, when Steve gently moves his hand. His rhythm is uneven — quick thrusts of his fingers counteracting slow pulls up Billy’s cock. Calloused fingertips ghost up the thick vein on the underside, the faded, faint slash of the scar, and Billy shudders.

His breath catches in his throat as he hits his peak. The feeling erupts from his curled toes and the depths of his gut _up up up_ and burns hot, skyrocketing through him. Gasping and clamping down on Steve’s fingers, he spurts up his stomach for the second time. It’s the slightest bit more satisfying but still, not enough, just scratching the surface. He chokes a little when he starts to come down and lazily wipes at some of the sweat on his temples.

Steve’s peering down at him with this cocky little grin, his pupils washing out all traces of warm brown, and Billy wants to roll his eyes at how damn _pleased_ he looks — the cat with the goddamn canary.

“Good,” Steve resigns dreamily, slides his hand through the sticky mess dotted across Billy’s warm abdomen, “you’re such a good boy.”

Billy can’t stop the weak smile he shoots back as the praise makes his fingertips tingle. He’ll take Steve’s praises with flushed cheeks and blustering embarrassment at any other time but now it’s soothing — ice on a burn.

“Fuck me now?” he asks breathlessly.

Steve doesn’t verbally answer him. Instead he hoists Billy up a bit more so his hips are angled up, only his shoulder blades kissing the mattress with his thighs draped over Steve’s as Steve sits up his knees. He retracts his fingers with a slick noise and Billy catches him tonguing at his bottom lip in anticipation. With very little grace he tugs at Billy’s thighs until they’re near a ninety degree angle, then gets Billy’s knees bent over his freckled shoulders, so he can fuck down into him.

Briefly, Steve moves to rub their cocks together, has proven he likes the feel of their slick, velvety skin colliding by several past sessions of lazily humping each other while necking on the downstairs sofa. Steve is dripping himself, bubbling up clear arousal at the tip. Some of it spills over and collects in the dip of Billy’s hip where he dabs it up with his thumb, makes a show of it as he sucks it between his lips while holding eye contact.

Steve growls low in his chest and gets back into position leaning over Billy, his cockhead pressed to Billy’s entrance and Billy’s ankles crossed over the back of his neck, his fingers pressed into those tan, muscled thighs and with his toes curling into the blankets for some minor leverage.

Billy’s knees are practically touching his collarbones at the shift in angle, bent totally in half.

Teasing, Steve rubs his tip over Billy’s hole and Billy clenches up helplessly in anticipation. The action of Steve provoking him by rubbing the blunt head of his dick up against his wet hole is like, _boyish_ and stupidly juvenile in theory, in _actuality_ , but it’s also maddeningly arousing. Steve obviously knows he secretly loves it and Billy feels himself drip again at the feeling and sucks on his lip, doesn’t expect Steve to do what he does next — just slide _home._

 _Yes_ , Billy thinks, _fucking yes_ , grunting and tightening up around that big cock and reveling in the sensation of the stretch. Steve is _big_ , filling him up in one shot, hot and throbbing. He’s more long than he is thick but he’s already pretty girthy, especially so where his knot will inevitably swell, and that just aids Billy with being absolutely obsessed with that fucking _beast_ Steve manages to tuck away in his pants.

“So _big_ ,” Billy says lowly, nearly sighs it, “y’feel so fucking _good_.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, then pulls back so that just his tip is pressing against Billy’s entrance, teasing and staring down to where their bodies meet. Billy can feel the heat ghosting over his perineum, can tell Steve’s might need a second to enjoy the view as he’s hesitating to push back in. He could give Steve a minute, _sure_ , but he’s aching and dripping and about ready to fuck himself onto Steve’s cock and do the work himself — when Steve finally drives back in.

And the pace is absolutely unforgiving.

The bed frame creaks in protest to the aggressiveness of Steve’s thrusts and Billy grapples for the edge of the mattress, bent completely in half with the way Steve’s pushing him down and holding him open. His legs are splayed obscenely where they’ve fallen off of freckled shoulders and there must be angry crescents from Steve’s nails digging into his thighs. Billy’s staring skywards to lock eyes with Steve, who’s fully draped over him with his lips parted and his eyes hooded, breaths coming out in quiet puffs with the occasional grunt and gasp escaping.

Usually there’s filthy exchanges between them but right now, neither of them can speak. Billy’s usually the talker, already has a dirty mouth that needs a good washing on a regular day, and is usually completely unhinged in heat.

Steve’s just stretching him so _good_ , hitting his spot and overwhelming him with sensation, kicking his dopamine and oxytocin levels into overdrive. Any verbal efforts to further spur his lover get fucked out of his head the second he strings some words together. He can only desperately claw angry red marks in Steve’s tensed forearms and torso to get a grip on something and bite his bottom lip in an attempt to damper the overly desperate moans backing up in his throat.

“C’mon, let me hear you,” Steve pants, “I wanna hear how good it feels.”

Billy jerkily shakes his head in protest. He knows Steve gets off on his noisiness but he’s not going to give him that so easily, with how slow a start Steve got of to. Luckily the ounce of fight he put up gets Steve try to milk the noises out of him with more vigor and all he can do is just take the punishing pace Steve’s drilling into him at.

Steve ducks down to nuzzle into his throat, lips ghosting over his scent gland and drinking in the cloying, syrupy scent rolling off of him. Then blunt teeth just barely press into the sensitive spot and Billy’s toes _curl_.

“Baby,” Billy chokes out. “ _Fuck_.”

Before Steve, Billy would be in bed by himself, spare blankets stuffed under his bedroom door with a chair jamming the handle, fighting to stay coherent and quiet as he bit into a pillow and worked his fingers inside himself at a frenzied pace, his come splattered across his sheets and palms.

Now he’s got stray hairs glued to his forehead and fuzzy corners to his vision, drying come spread on his stomach and slick itching his thighs but he’s _euphoric_. Right now he’s just an omega in heat laying on his back with his legs spread open for _his_ alpha and he _loves it_ , is absolutely drunk on everything _Steve_ as he feels himself nearing the edge again.

“Close?” Steve asks next to his ear, breathless.

Billy feels himself nod dazedly, then swallows thickly.

“All floaty, shit’s still kinda hurting. Gonna come again if you touch - _fuck_ \- touch m’dick.”

He sees Steve sit up straight and smirk through milky vision, then feels his thrusts go a tad slower. Billy bites back a pathetic whimper at the lethargic pace.

“I’m gonna make you come one more time and then I’m gonna knot you,” Steve says to him, “then I’m gonna stay inside you til I get hard again, and then I’ll fuck you until you’re coming _dry_.”

Bill nearly _cackles,_ wets his lips and clamps down on Steve’s cock, making him gasp all rough and grating.

And then he remembers Steve’s promise.

“You gonna bite me soon?” he hiccups.

Soothing a hand through his own sweat-damp bangs and tucking loose tendrils of hair behind his ears, Steve takes a second to concoct an answer, and totally _stops_ moving. He just sits with his cock pressed into his spot and Billy wriggles impatiently, pinches Steve’s hips where they sit cradled between his legs, a weak effort to get him moving at least a little, just to keep him stimulated.

“You’re barely conscious right now,” Steve tells him hoarsely, then takes the hint and at least starts his shallow, slow thrusting up again, _thank god_ , “I’m gonna wait til you’re not so hazy and then I’ll do it, just be a little more patient. I want you to be ready for it.”

Billy insists, “I’m ready _now_ , Harrington,” and frowns.

His stomach knots up. It’s not _fair_. Steve had told him, had _promised_ before they’d fallen asleep last night, that he’d mark him when asked. Would pretty much do it on _demand_. But _now_ Steve’s holding out on him and telling him to be patient but it’s _his_ heat and this is _not_ fair. There’s an edge of hysteria seeping through the fogginess in his head and he’s ready to argue here.

Like, with Steve still _inside him_ and everything.

“ _Baby_ ,” Steve starts, his voice gravelly and low, “I’m still gonna do it, but I wanna wait, okay? Just trust me on this?”

Billy’s definitely riding the edge of being desperate for Steve’s teeth in his neck, for the moment that instinct will navigate Steve to his scent gland, where he’ll break the skin and hold firm with the intensity and drive of a predator making the kill strike, clamping down and holding him by the throat while he fills him up.

“Only if you’re promisin’ me you’re still gonna do it.”

With a bit of a sway, he tries to get his arms around Steve’s neck to pull him down to look into his eyes properly but kind of misses and nearly smacks Steve in the face. He’s _definitely_ heat drunk. Steve takes pity on him though, laughing  airily as he takes the initiative, and leans down to kiss him wetly, licks into his mouth as one hand slides down Billy’s sticky torso and rests just above his cock.

Steve then starts fucking into him with the same vigor as before while trading sloppy, open mouthed kisses and resting their foreheads together. Billy nearly chokes Steve as he wraps his arms around his neck. Through half-shut eyes, his belly clenching with need, Billy can see Steve must be close too. He always closes his eyes and lets out these choked-off gasps when he’s about to come.

“You promise me?” Billy reiterates, clenching down.

Steve nods and barely gets his eyes open. “ _Pr_ _omise_.”

“Okay,” Billy manages, because that’s good enough for him right now. Steve grips his cock and Billy digs his nails into Steve’s shoulder blades, swallows back a moan, says, “ _okay,_ ” again as he comes in Steve’s fist.

* * *

Steve manages to wring a total of five orgasms out of Billy within the first hour of his heat.

The first two were, of course, born of Steve’s teasing prepwork, but the last few came about just from Billy being fucked, and Steve kept his promise and got him to number three with a warm first on his dick, then came inside with a groan and let himself knot.

Billy’s cock is a little less hard after number three and he sighs so _sweetly_ when Steve’s hips stutter and his knot tugs at his hole. Steve bites his lip and hiccups through it, filling Billy up until there’s a few pearly trickles slipping out, and after a handful of minutes his knot dies down. He stays locked inside for as long as he can stand and hisses whenever Billy squirms, a little sensitive and wrung out. Billy tries to be understanding and gives Steve time to bounce back, but his body just wants _more more more_ and he can’t silence the mantra in his head.

It always takes Steve a little longer to get it up after he’s knotted too, but being spurred on by Billy’s scent and blissed expression luckily cuts his recovery in half. He doesn’t knot every time he comes either — it really only happens when Billy’s in heat and he’s in a rut because he’s so worked up from hormones that it just _comes up_.

Otherwise, he’s got to be _really_ into it for his base to swell on a regular day and Billy’s _always_ grateful when that happens.

By number five, Billy’s shaking a bit, like he’s been caught in the rain without a jacket, and there’s just a few runny dribbles leaking from his tip. Five is usually his max before he needs to briefly tap out, his cock temporarily softened and his hole puffy and raw-feeling, but sometimes Steve will fuck him through it if he hasn’t come himself yet.

This time though, Steve gingerly pulls out and gives him a moment. He gets him some water and cleans some of the sticky mess off his stomach, but promises he’ll be back inside shortly. Billy takes the momentary pseudo-clarity to try and convince Steve to just keep going.

“My heat’s gonna last longer if we take these breaks every time I get worked up,” he slurs between gulps of cool water, “you can fuck me through it, doesn’t matter if I’m sensitive. And we’re not gonna get a lot of sleep either ‘cause I’ll keep waking up at night for more.”

Steve just smiles at him like he knows - _damn him_ for being such a goddamn softie, Billy internally gripes - and takes the glass after he’s downed it, kisses his temple. Steve’s hair is a _mess_ , looks like a rat’s nest that got stuck in a tornado and hit with a gust of hairspray, and on top of that he’s a little sticky where he’d rubbed his stomach against Billy’s cock earlier and gotten jizz splattered just above his navel, _and_ there’s this splotchy sex blush that’s mimicking hives across his cheeks, neck and chest.

But it’s still _Steve_ regardless of how goofy he looks, and Billy will take that any day.

He just doesn’t even want to imagine how fucking ridiculous _he_ looks right now and is grateful the mirror on the dresser is angled away from the bed.

Billy passes his empty glass back to Steve, who carefully rolls of the bed and inevitably runs off to the bathroom to refill it. Laying amongst the mess of creased blankets and dirtied towels on the bed, Billy longingly stares at the doorway, close to making grabby hands the second he leaves even though Steve returns no more than thirty second later. The mattress dips and Steve climbs back into bed, leaning on one arm as he lays parallel to Billy on top of the sheets.

“Have a little more,” he says as he offers Billy more water, “and going back to what you said a second ago — even if it takes longer, you always get fucking _loopy_ when I don’t give you breaks. Like you say weird shit and your one eye goes all lazy.”

Billy flushes and is thankful he doesn’t remember getting that bad. He leans into Steve and nuzzles into his chest for a beat, just to appreciate the calm then clenches up when he feels some of Steve’s come starting to drip out. A chord of panic reverberates through him at that, possessive, and pushes a hand between his thighs and tries to finger some of it back in, making Steve eye his jerking wrist with hunger.

“Still feels good though, even if I go a little batshit.”

Steve smirks, rests his hand low on Billy’s back. “You - fuck, what’s the word - disassociate? Or whatever? And I don’t like fucking you when you get like that. Makes me feel like I broke you or something.”

Billy retracts his fingers and reaches out blindly to flick Steve in the chest. “Like I said though, doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel fucking _good_.”

“Alright, next time I’ll fuck you til you’re stupid, then. _This_ _time_ though, I wanna have my give you some, I dunno, _recovery time_ and have you half-conscious when I do _it_ , so you can do it to me, too. I don’t wanna have to wait for it just because you’re all whacked out.”

 _Oh_ , Billy didn’t think about _that_. If he gets bit when he’s completely out of it, he won’t have the energy to mark Steve back. Not all alphas like having marks in the first place though, especially older ones - some primitive belief that it’s a sign of _weakness_ to show you’re owned by another, and it’s kind of gross - but Steve seems insistent on it, if the look in his eyes is anything to go by.

Billy’s a little breathless when he replies with a quiet, “okay,” and then, “fuck me one more time before I get a _real_ break then?”

And Steve _happily_ obliges, is even ready to knot again but grips his cock when he’s ready to come, and promises Billy _later_. Holding off for the grand finale or something, or at least doing it so he can fuck him for longer, and that’s enough to sate Billy after he’s come again, hiccuping as he comes dry.

Coming down all punch drunk and overworked, he lets Steve wipe him off with the edge of the towel, then noses his way into the crook of Steve’s shoulder so he can catch is breath, but ends up knocking out for three hours.

Billy rouses again when there’s a sudden wave of unbearable heat sweeping over him. When he opens his eyes, it’s breaking early afternoon - like how has this little time _passed_ \- and he wakes with a grunt and a bitten off whine and finds that he’s achingly hard again, his cock leaking clear against his thigh.

He’s known for years that the first day of heat is always the fucking hardest. His body is just so _insistent_ the first twenty four hours, so dangerously insatiable, especially when they decide to take minute pauses in between. It’s like the second his body decides it’s had its bare minimum rest, he’s up and ready to go again, complete with another onslaught of waxing and waning nausea, body aches, and overheating. He’s back in his placated headspace as well, all trace amounts of coherency gone again, so he’s decently unaware as to how desperate he actually _is_.

The tiny conscious corner of his mind knows a greedy alpha would take advantage of him like this, frantic and aching, but Steve’s got a sturdy grip on his self control. He’s bounds better than that, even overwhelmed by that herbal, needy scent and raging hormones. That’s why he’s giving Billy all these breaks even when Billy’s insistent for him to keep _going_.

Neither of them talk about it, but one time Steve willingly obliged him and got Billy crying these fat crocodile tears, all pink cheeked and shaking and blubbering nonsense, insisting he could keep going despite the painful oversensitivity. Like they’d stoked the fire too much.

Billy doesn’t remember much of the incident other than being hazily hushed and rocked for awhile, and Steve incessantly fussing over him for days afterwards. Apparently it was _that_ bad - and a little embarrassing so he tries _not_ to focus on it too much - and while some other alphas would take that in stride, it’s clear Steve doesn’t and won’t accept a repeat of that performance.

Sluggishly, he flips over onto his other side to see if Steve’s aware he’s up yet, only to find that he’s none the wiser, bare as the day he was born with a magazine in one hand as well as a handful of greasy potato chips in the other.

“Hey,” Billy says hoarsely, honestly a bit startled at how unused his voice sounds.

Steve peers at him over a dog eared page and regards him with another fond look and puts down his magazine on the nightstand, then throws back the handful of chips and wipes his salted hand on the edge of the towel still situated underneath them. It probably doesn't do much considering it’s basically just playing the part of an extra large come rag and is tacky in several spots from slick and spunk, but Billy can’t bring himself to care too much about that right now. Greasy chip fingers are at the bottom of his list of priorities right now.

“Hey yourself,” Steve near-whispers, ducking down to stroke his cheek, “you ready for round two?”

And Billy doesn’t say anything - instead he maintains eye contact, shifts onto his knees and fucking _presents_ himself, ready to have his face pressed into the sheets so hard he gets creases pressed into his cheek while Steve bruises his hips with those long fingers.

He gives his hips a coy little wriggle for emphasis and sticks the pink tip of his tongue out past his lips, which kickstarts something in Steve. Within seconds he’s clearing the space between them and is behind Billy, rubbing his fingertips over his hole. Billy knows he must feel sticky and used but doesn’t care much with the feeling of lightly calloused fingers tracing circles around his rim.

“I _think_ I know what the answer is,” Steve rumbles.

Billy sighs into the edge of a pillow. “You surprised?”

“Not at all.”

Steve does that dumb thing again where he taps his cockhead over Billy’s hole, but then he guides himself back in and Billy _melts_ all over again. He grips onto the bedding as Steve lays over his back, grips one hip and cradles his chest with a splayed palm.

It doesn’t take Billy long to come again, with Steve’s hand wrapped around his cock and jerking him off rapidly with a tight grip. Steve doesn’t knot him this time either — he comes right after Billy pitches over the edge and he pulls out halfway so his come still catches inside, but when he’s done and catching his breath, he pulls out a just a bit more and squeezes the base of his cock, milks himself and holds tight where his knot would pop.

Billy watches him over his shoulder with hooded eyes, only catching a partial view from the angle he’s at. Sighing, Steve releases himself and eases Billy down onto his stomach, then drapes himself over Billy’s back.

Steve cards his fingers through the long, loose curls splayed over his shoulders and nuzzles into the base of his neck.

“Gimme a sec,” he breathes, “I can go again, just gotta catch m’breath.”

And Billy nods exhaustedly, feels a dribble of come cooling over his balls as Steve readjusts and rests his weight completely on top of his, softened cock resting in the crevice of his ass. Steve snuffles into the back of his neck, closer to his scent gland now.

This close, Steve could bite him. He’s just come and needs a minute to get riled up on Billy’s scent again, but still — he’s so _close_ to the spot. Billy says nothing about it though, knows Steve won’t give it to him yet, but he still wants. Wants Steve to give him that fat knot, get his belly bulging with come as he sinks his teeth into his neck and _holds_ until they’re stained crimson and there’s blood smudged across his lips.

Billy wants it so fucking _bad_.

And by the time evening comes around, Billy’s lost _count_ of how many times Steve’s made him come in the past few hours. Steve’s so focused on lasting now, stretching out his stamina to impossible lengths and manages to only come _twice_ , but he also manages to knot _both times_ and fucks Billy with it while he comes inside him, does that until he desperately needs to pull out and take a second to get hard again.

It’s become a cycle, really — Steve holding off as long as he can, fucking Billy til he’s coming dry, lets himself knot, gives them both a breather, lather, rinse, repeat.

Billy could _probably_ keep going like this, he thinks hazily, but he can’t stop shaking now and he’s pretty much soft and he _might_ start crying soon, but it’s almost like he can’t vocalize that he needs a break. His body is _singing_ with the pleasure, no longer aching with the amount of incessant dicking Steve’s giving him. He feels fucked out and overused but has to be _so close_ to getting his fill for the day and can hopefully sleep through the night without needing another go.

Luckily though, Steve’s laying over him again and must catch that far off look in his eyes and slows to a stop, slips out carefully. Billy starts to protest with a grunt and grabby hands, _no no it’s fine please_ , but is silenced with soft kisses, lays over him and replaces his cock with two fingers. The sounds released between their bodies are wet, all slippery with slick and come, and when Steve presses into his spot with quick, short strokes.

And like he’s pulled a trigger, Billy empties his shaky whimpers into Steve’s open mouth when he climaxes again, cock pulsing weakly against his hip.

Billy can barely keep his eyes open as he comes down. He feels Steve remove his fingers and hears that he’s jacking himself messily, opens his mouth to allow Steve’s more persistent nipping at his bottom lip. One hand cradles his jaw to keep his head from falling back as they kiss sloppily, and a moment later, with a gasp, Steve adds to the mess Billy’s got sticking to his quivering stomach.

He’s bulging with a knot again and holding himself. It’s not as big as it usually gets, only halfway popped with his body overworked from servicing. Billy struggles to keep his eyes open, to keep the tears away as he eyes it, and with quivering hands, closes his palm over Steve’s and squeezes. Steve _keens_ and drops his sweat-slick forehead against his, doesn’t let go until he’s completely soft, then Billy gently eases his hand back.

“Oh, baby,” Steve says lowly, voice like gravel, when he sees how bad Billy’s shaking, how glassy his eyes are, tears threatening to spill over.

But Billy just shakes his head, laughs wetly. “‘m fine,” he croaks, “I’m fucking _good_.”

And he is — _good_. Like he’s been fucked into a liquid state. The aches are completely gone for the time being and he’s been wrung out dry. He’s sticky and _wet_ , leaking between his legs and feels higher than he does off a Cali joint. It’s _perfect_.

Although, Steve looks a little worried and thumbs away the tears sitting in the corners of his eyes, hefts him up so he’s half-laying on top of Steve, and they lay like that for awhile.

Eventually Steve gets up and starts going around the room, pulling the blankets further back - like they’re not going to need a good wash - and fiddling with the blackout curtains.

Luckily though, Billy’s photosensitivity has receded enough at this point that Steve can peel the curtains back and open the blinds halfway, a few streaks of yellow light sneak into the room. They bathe in the new warmth like sleep-drunk cats, stretching out to soak it in, while Steve works small circles into Billy’s back and shoulders, cards his fingers through his sweat-tangled curls, asks if he needs anything in a low, feather-soft tone, now in nurture mode.

Billy keeps his head on Steve’s chest to listen to the gentle, calming thrum of his heartbeat, soaking in the sunshine and soft pets he’s granted. Sooner or later, Steve wordlessly hands him his Reds and they pass a cigarette back and forth, watch the dust particles catch the stray sunbeams and light up as they exhale grey smoke.

Steve also insists he should eat now and Billy, too tired to argue, easily caves but, “only if you feed me, pretty boy,” as if Steve won’t do exactly that. He likes being a little bratty for Steve when he’s like this, because he’ll always get his way.

Maybe it’s a little selfish, but his heart does somersaults when Steve is so eager to keep him sated.

They continue to smoke and every time Steve takes the cig back, he trades it for pieces of a broken up protein bar and a hastily sliced apple he’d briefly run downstairs to grab. Billy’s still not _starving_ but he said he’d eat if Steve were so gracious to _feed him_ , so he takes the food offered in stride and happily sucks any juice or stray crumbs off of Steve’s fingertips.

They continue to lay in silence for awhile, going through another smoke and picking at the remainder of the array of snacks Steve had insisted on having on hand, all, “If I leave to cook something you’ll freak out like that one time and I’m not fucking you on the counter again just because you needed it when I was in the middle of making grilled cheese,” even though it only happened that _one time_.

“Feeling better?” Steve eventually asks, wiping chip crumbs off the bed. He’s got his other arm draped over Billy’s back again and is playing chords in the dips of his ribcage.

Billy just nods and reaches for his lighter, flicks it a few times so the flame catches then dies just as fast.

He nuzzles his nose into the side of Steve’s neck and deeply breathes in the scent Steve is giving off. It’s lighter than it usually is when there’s a hormonal influx going on between them, radiating a calm feeling as the smoke and spice has dissipated into something less fiery. It’s sweeter, more herbal than anything Steve’s put out before. There’s barely any traces of his usual underlying musk, the tang of contentment or the cloying spice of arousal.

Any adjectives Billy would have previously used to describe the overall peppery, woodsy scent of his alpha are gone, because Steve’s not putting out the scent of an alpha — it smells like _him_.

Smells like _Billy_.

Dumbly, he says, “You smell like me.”

“Do I?” Steve shifts under him and sniffs his pit, then scrunches his nose up. “I mean, you kind of smell like _me,_  too. But that happens?”

Billy taps his scent gland with careful fingers, feeling a little off-kilter again when he retracts them and the fragrance follows, tenfold stronger. No, it's not their scents rubbing off on each other. Steve definitely smells like  _him,_  but it's  _better_.

“It means we’re connected — that you really want to bond me. That you’re _supposed_ to bond with me,” Billy explains stupidly, like Steve doesn’t know what it means.

Tapping the cig out into an ashtray on the nightstand, Steve gets so _nonchalant._ He lets out this pleased-sounding grumble and his chest rumbles with it, but his heartbeat isn’t rabbiting and he’s not close to quivering anxiously like Billy is, realizing what this _means_.

Billy isn’t into the whole ancient, alpha-omega _soulmate_ bullshit people like to over-romanticize, but he _does_ know and trust that when an alpha starts reflecting an omega’s scent and vise versa, it’s a solid symbol that there’s _something_ there. Fairy tale lore and fucking novellas be damned, it’s on the rarer side of things, but it’s still based _factually_ — something that’s supposed to happen between people that are like, perfect biological matches.

It means that _they’re_ supposed to happen.

“I know,” Steve purrs, “I’m just not surprised? I had a feeling, I dunno.”

“You had a feeling,” and Billy raises his brows, trying to make the moment less serious, “like _electricity_?”

Then Steve rolls his eyes and Billy snickers, gets a poke in the ribs for that but then Steve’s flipping him into his back without warning - Billy will swear later that it did _not_ take him by surprise - and looms over him. The saccharine, herbal scent Steve was throwing off moments ago is suddenly morphing into spice and musk, all peppery and honeyed. It’s so rapid Billy feels lightheaded from it.

“Time to get back to work then?” he asks, blood rushing south.

Steve just answers him with a wink and does, truly, get back to work.

* * *

When he wakes up the next morning, Billy still feels a little fuzzy, just on  the edge of punch drunk. The worst of it has passed and the usual side effects still linger, but less so than yesterday.

Groaning as he sits up, _definitely_ sore - and there’s nothing like a servicing from _King Steve_ that gives real meaning to the phrase ‘gonna feel that in the morning’ - he looks at the clock on the headboard and the little red letters tell him it’s eight-thirty in the morning.

Well, it’s better than six fucking a.m.

At least he’s not dying to get the sheets off now, although he does feel warm already, and shifting as he sits up only magnifies the soreness down south where he’d been filled up, the dull aching low in his back, in his thighs and neck. Typical heat pains, still there but growing weaker. Tomorrow he’ll wake up and there’ll be more aches from the positions he’s gotten himself fucked in rather than his hormones raging through his body and giving him ridiculously unfair muscular contractions.

And just to see how much time he has before he’s properly knocked on his back again, he gets his fingers between his legs and feels over himself, rim puffy and sore and remnants of Steve’s messes on his cheeks, but he’s not to the point of leaking yet.

Steve’s not up yet either, snoring into his pillow with half of his right ass cheek peeking out from the bunched up sheets, meaning Billy’s got even more time to himself than he really needs.

So with a grunt and a bit of a limp, he slips off to the bathroom to relieve himself. He splashes some cool water on his face and stares at his reflection blearily, gives the rat’s nest his hair’s turned into a good muss, brushes his teeth. He figures later tonight he can shower or run a bath because he’s definitely getting rank under all the hormones, but right now he knows the wave of day two arousal is going to hit him soon enough and it won’t be worth the sponge bath he can manage right now.

Like, he can smell Steve just as strongly as he would with a foot between them in the shared bed and he’s down the _hall_.

It’s going to hit him in like, under five minutes, which is kind of a let down seeing as he thought he had some _proper_ time to maybe share a pot of coffee with Steve before being taken back to bed and loved into the mattress, but he really doesn’t feel up to getting fucked over the kitchen counter after trying to enjoy some coffee, especially when he can barely stand in the first place.

Steve _was_ right about that — hot in theory, uncomfortable in execution.

Luckily when he returns to the bedroom, Steve’s already up and moving around the room sluggishly. He’s got the curtains tied back, the blinds retracted and window cracked to get some fresh air in. He’s also got a chunk of banana sticking out of his mouth - how much food had he _stashed_ in here - shucks yesterday’s towel into the laundry basket, then lays out a fresh one across the sheets before settling on the edge of the mattress, half hunched over with fatigue.

“Morning sleeping beauty,” Billy says softly, settling next to him.

Steve regards him with a tired nod and takes another bite of banana. “You hungry?”

“Mm, I’ll live. It’s gonna hit again in a few minutes and I know I’ll get super fucking nauseous if I’m eating when it hits, but I’ll probably be hungry for lunch in a couple of hours.”

Steve nods again finishes off the banana, sucks any starchy remnants of his fingers. “Sounds like a plan,” he yawns, leaning against Billy’s shoulder. “You know you woke me up at two a.m.?”

Billy squints down at him. “I did?”

“Yeah. Jesus, you were _bad_. I’ve heard some filthy stuff come out of your mouth but never like _that_.”

Billy scowls at the ceiling, thinks for a minute, then it hits him and — _oh_.

He sluggishly remembers waking up leaking and achy at some point in the night, then climbing into a sleeping Steve’s lap and rubbing on him while uttering filthy whispers of, “‘m dripping for you,” and “need your fat knot again, baby,” and “fill me up,” until Steve had woken up.

He _also_ vaguely remembers that Steve had risen dazedly and rubbed his eyes in the darkness, given his dick a few terse jerks until he was properly hard again. Then Billy thinks, no, he’s _pretty_ fucking sure he rode Steve’s cock until Steve had come inside him, if the slightly fresher mess between his thighs is anything to go by.

But that’s it, right? He just needed a little something to tie him over until the morning and he doesn’t always remember it _clearly_ once morning comes, but that’s nothing too out of the ordinary.

“Anything else happen?”

“Well,” Steve muses, “you did this _thing_ ,” then goes crimson, “right before you passed out. And you like, you took my hand? And got all close like you wanted to _spoon_ because we both know you love being little spoon - don’t look at me like that - but then you turned around so you could get your leg over me and put my hand on your _ass_.”

Billy shoots him a deadpan look. “Ooh, _kinky_ , Harrington, wanting my own _boyfriend_ to grab my _ass_. I’m in heat and wanna be touched, _sue me_.”

“ _No_ , you did more than that, dick. You wanted me to put my fingers in so you wouldn’t _leak_. Wanted it to ‘stay inside’  - and _you_ said this - so I could _knock you up_.”

He definitely wasn’t expecting _that_ reply and Billy actually shudders.

“ _Jesus_.”

He’s never given _that_ much thought before. The possibility of it even happening and going through successfully to the end is _low_ for male omegas,  but not unheard of. In the corners of his heat-hazy memories, maybe he’d considered it, but he never put any action behind those ponderings.

“Yeah.” Steve’s suddenly tugging him down to the mattress so they’re laying back against the mussed sheets, side by side, and then he’s in Billy’s ear with, “I mean, the first thing was pretty hot, but I think the second thing, we should talk about it before we _actually_ do anything.”

Billy kind of wants to bury his head in the sand, or at least do the next best  thing and get the sheets over his head so he can hide and compose himself for a minute. But Steve doesn’t let him; instead, he gets himself on Billy’s lap, leans in and nips at his earlobe as he rocks his cock against Billy’s lower stomach.

He’s still soft for the most part but Billy knows it won’t take long for Steve to be at full mast. Billy already feels himself heating up again, warmth filling him from the toes up, and nips at his bottom lip.

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll talk about it later,” he rushes out.

Then Steve pushes at his shoulders until he’s laying flat against the sheets, is hovering over him with his knees on either side of Billy’s hips. His cock sits in the dip of Billy’s abs, too, filling and fattening up.

“Is that what you want though?” Steve presses, eyes hooded. He sits back on Billy’s thighs and splays one palm under his navel, asks, “you want me to…?” and strokes over the taught skin with his thumb, watching Billy’s face carefully.

If he wasn’t embarrassed before, Billy definitely is _now_. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are burning with shame, hotter than the fever he’s had, and he’s properly getting wet between his legs as well. His cock is completely hard and already aching as it twitches against his stomach, meaning he’s officially back in throes of heat, and set off by some fucking, _breeding_ talk.

He throws an arm over his face to try and avoid Steve’s heated gaze, but Steve’s already got his wrist in hand and easing his arm down, gently pinning it to the blankets.

“Steve -”

He whines as Steve moves to crawl off of him languidly, panther-like, and parts his thighs with ease as he makes room for himself. Just the feeling of Steve’s fingers back on his thighs have Billy’s legs falling open without any trace of a fight.

With a smirk, Steve’s hand quickly returns to the stretch of skin under Billy’s navel and momentarily rests, then travels lower. Billy hisses when Steve suddenly fists his cock and gives it a few slow pulls, twisting at the crown so a few weak, clear drips gather at the tip.

Billy groans like he’s in pain and wriggles forward into Steve’s touch, wanting to feel the press of his cock over his hole and —

“Shh, baby.”

“ _Fuck_ , just get _in_ me.”

He’s breathless just from Steve teasingly playing with his dick, wants Steve in him _now now now_ like they’ve flipped a switch, which means that _that_ , Steve just telling him that _he_ asked to be knocked up at two in the fucking morning and then talking about it in the most casual context, is what’ll get him going in an instant now.

Like hitting the little red ‘do not touch’ button.

At least Steve slides into him quick. He doesn’t finger him open to rile him up, doesn’t even tease him with a single curled finger — instead Steve further smears the mess shining clear over his entrance and leaking down his perineum, and lines himself up, pushes in with a grunt as he grips the back of Billy’s tensed thighs and presses with his full body weight.

Steve fucks him with desperate staccato thrusts of his hips, kisses him with his teeth and wetly pants into his mouth. Billy clutches at the headboard with cramping fingers and lets Steve swallow down his moans, lets him rail into his prostate to an overwhelming degree, leaving icy hot sparks to shoot through his belly.

At some point Billy loses his grip on the headboard, too slick with sweat, and grapples to hang onto Steve’s back. He scratches angry red lines down Steve’s pale shoulder blades and hooks his nails into his ribs, only spurring Steve on more with the bite of it.

The bed frame creaks at their vigor while the mattress groans in protest to Steve’s aggressive lovemaking, but Billy drinks it all in greedily. He’s going to have purple thumbprints pressed into the backs of his thighs and a raw kind of ache deep inside, but he doesn’t _care_. He was so sure they were going to go at it lazy and slow, Steve spooned up behind him and gripping one hip as he tucked his cock inside, rolled his hips in sleepy circles until Billy was whining and hiccuping for more, but no — it seems like recollecting their half-conscious little romp in the dark hours before has him just as riled up as Billy.

Billy’s coming on a broken “ _S_ _teve!_ ” a minute later, his orgasm slamming into him out of nowhere, full force and unexpected like a car crash.

Steve relentlessly fucks him through it, alternating between twisting and pinching at his puffy nipples and nipping over his scent gland - but not _biting_ , fucker - until he’s spilling onto himself. Billy’s got three milky loads splattered up his chest by the time Steve’s pinching his eyes shut and knotting him on a groan.

And because he’s not up to full throttle like he was yesterday, Billy starts to get a little sensitive as the third climax gets pulled from him but wants to see how far Steve will go before he can protest. The thing is though, Steve’s got this newfound gusto out of nowhere and doesn’t _stop_ , even when Billy’s slick is staining the light blue sheets three shades darker - so much for that towel, honestly - and his cooling come is dribbling down his sides and itching him.

Billy just lays back and _takes it_ for a seemingly endless amount of time. From where he’s spread out on the mattress, he can see sun’s made a noticeable shift across the cloudless sky. He sighs dreamily the second time Steve manages to knot on him, clenches down and lets the sparks of overstimulation shoot through him when Steve’s knot tugs on his rim.

Steve fills him up just as much as he did the previous day and it makes Billy’s belly bulge with how much come has been fed into him, regardless of what he’s been unable to keep in and has messily dripped between his thighs and smeared across various towels and layers of bedding.

Luckily though, Steve can tell he’s getting a little too keyed up and carefully pulls out once his knot has gone down enough, kisses away the little shivers that reverberate through his body as he comes down and soothes him with gentle hands tracing down the contours of his spine.

The rest of the day, though, goes by like clockwork, even if Steve swears that he might not be able to knot at all after this, bitching about how needy Billy’s been this cycle.

Like, Billy knows it’s all for the sake of dramatics, but at the same time, if Steve felt the crashing wave of calm that washes through Billy whenever he gets filled, when he’s stuffed full on a popped knot and swelling with come, he’d be keeping his mouth fucking _shut_.

Billy is also able to eat a real meal for the first time in over twenty-four hours and Steve hastily fries him up an omelet with the basic cooking skills he does possess. They twist the surplus of cheese flooding out the unsealed end around their forks and stretch it until it breaks and feed each other bits of leftover mushroom, tomato and spinach that refuse to stay trapped within the omelet.

Bellies full, Steve hauls Billy into a patch of sunshine cast over the bed and they curl up into it, pressed together close, and eventually drop off into a dreamless sleep before the next round hits.

* * *

After a decently long rest and a frozen pizza dinner - and Billy getting fingered against the kitchen counter - Steve herds him into the master bathroom and fucks him up against the slick tiles and frosted glass of the shower, wants to keep going up until they both nearly slip on a fallen bar of soap, and Billy’s bitching about really needing to wash his hair. He exiles Steve to the other end of the shower while he lathers up, but is then pulling him back in so he can get ‘those really good head scratches’.

Billy still pokes fun at him for his product usage even when Steve works the honey scented Fabergé Organics conditioner into his hair, but stops with a grunt the instant Steve gives a few of his curls an unnecessarily hard tug.

That night, they sleep on a pile of old bath towels and Billy’s comforter from the guest room, Steve’s dirtied sheets shucked onto the floor. Steve’s spooned up behind Billy with his nose pressed into his scent gland, breathing in the last of his overly sweet heat scent. By morning, Billy will smell close to normal, the subdued lavender-vanilla sweet fragrance Steve loves no less - even though Billy complains he always smells like a girly candle under his cologne - but doesn’t have the same level of hormonal impact that his heat scent does.

When he finally drifts off, Steve’s body a warm and comforting weight wrapped around him, Billy dreams of teeth in his neck, hot blood running down his collarbone and slipping down his throat as he sinks his own teeth into Steve’s scent gland and holds firm so the bite takes.

The next morning though, they wake up late and his neck is still unmarked, as is Steve’s.

And they’ve _really_ got to change that, meaning that Billy will stoop lower than he normally would to get his way.

Because Steve _promised_ he would, and he hasn’t.

So, Billy puts a plan into action.

He asks Steve to make him pancakes like he promised - “You told me I’d get the real Harrington treatment, right?” - and watches Steve, dressed only in a flimsy pair of briefs, busy himself with the Bisquick mix and buttered skillet. Billy plots from the other side of the island countertop with a cup of smokey, smooth black coffee in hand, wearing a borrowed bathrobe that does little to nothing to keep him covered up.

“You doing okay so far?” Steve asks once they’ve got their breakfast plated.

He’s joined Billy at the island and has his own coffee now, creamy and sweet with the mug situated next to Billy’s, and keeps accidentally taking sips off the other mug.

Billy shrugs and picks at his pancakes, soaked with butter and syrup. “So far, yeah. Last day and all.”

Steve nods like he suspects something but says nothing. He just stabs his own syrupy pancakes and watches Billy carefully as he stuffs his face, and keeps doing that even when he’s mopping up the last of the syrup coating his plate.

He _keeps_ looking at Billy weird even when the dirty breakfast dishes have been put in the sink, when he pulls back from kissing Billy stupid against the staircase railing, and _again_ when they’re back upstairs in bed.

Billy’s starfished out in the bed with this pleased look on his face, cheeks pink and a flush dappling his chest. He’s feeling the last dregs of heat in his system now, has him more tipsy and grabby than fuzzy, drunk and achingly horny.

“Why’d you keep looking at me funny?” he muses. “Been giving me this _look_ since breakfast.”

“You look like you’re _plotting_ something and it’s never good for _me_ when you do that.”

Billy just shrugs and stretches out more. He’s still got the fluffy bathrobe on despite the belt being untied, naked as he’s been for the past two days. He closes his eyes for a moment and sighs in contentment when Steve pokes him in the ribs.

“ _Ow_ , I’m not plotting anything, _Christ_.”

Eyes still closed, he blindly reaches out and smacks Steve in the chest once, twice, then pinches his nipple meanly. Steve squeaks in protest and Billy feels the bed dip as he suddenly shimmies closer, then opens his eyes to find Steve leaning over him with a scowl.

“I’m _not_ ,” Billy insists, like the snarky little liar he can be.

Steve shoots him this irritated look for another moment but then he’s sighing and rolling his eyes - a very Steve thing to do, minus the exasperated hand movements that usually follow - and leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose.

“Whatever you say.”

And Steve kisses him again, this time firmly on the lips, then retracts with a grin when Billy follows his mouth. Steve smirks but Billy’s persistent and sits up to catch him in another kiss, smiles against Steve’s bottom lip when he snags him. The kisses are gentle, dry and overlapping at first, but then Steve’s lying back and Billy’s hovering over him, hunched over, and they melt together, one-three-five and growing.

Billy cups one side of Steve’s face in his palm and thumbs through the soft, product-free locks of hair he always feathers away from his face as he slips his tongue into Steve’s mouth. He tastes buttery, rich and sweet like the faux maple syrup they’d both dumped over their pancakes.  

Steve’s fingers wind their way into the curls at the base of his skull and to the dip of his waist. Despite Steve’s godawful circulation, his fingertips feel the warmest they have in days, meaning Billy’s fever is almost gone, although he’ll still need some servicing before it completely breaks.

Meaning he’s still got time to implement his _plan_.

He hauls himself over Steve completely, ass planted firmly over his crotch, his knees bracketing his sides, then leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss over his collarbone. Billy latches his teeth onto each mole and freckle he can spot and pulls these desperate, breathy grunts out of Steve’s throat.

When he latches onto Steve’s ear and tugs, he actually _moans_ and twist his fingers into Billy’s hair harder.

“ _Fuck_ , sweetheart,” he whispers hoarsely.

Billy chuckles lowly in response and sits back on Steve’s hips, shakes his hair out over his shoulders. Steve shifts underneath him and sits up as well, the two of them nearly level with the minor height advantage Billy has in this position.

“I wanna go slow today.”

“Really?” Steve says as he moves to kiss up his jaw, “why?”

Billy shrugs like he’s got no reason at all. “Just wanna try it out.”

But as much as he does like it fast, filthy and desperate, as much as he wants to get to the end, he also loves it when Steve opens him up with his fingers, taking his time, and spoons up behind him as he guides his cock inside, the two of them slowly getting off on sleepy, languid movements.

The slightest edge of desperation is still there, as well as the spark of anticipation in his belly that will only subside when Steve’s holding his neck captive between his teeth, but he knows it’s going to happen, soon, especially with what he has planned to get Steve on track.

Luckily, Steve seems to actually suspect very little, or at least have no real idea as to what Billy’s been plotting, and slows down. He’s already half-hard from the kissing — Billy can feel the warmth of him under his cheeks.

Steve cradles his chin and holds him up by supporting the small of his back, smiles against his mouth as he tongues at Billy’s fat bottom lip. Billy savors the way Steve’s breath hitches when he wriggles his hips, the way he goes a little hungry and gently bites down on his lip, tugging softly.

They stay like that for awhile, moving slow and biting at each other’s lips, licking into their mouths and swallowing down quiet moans and ragged gasps. Billy rocks his hips every so often just to feel Steve coming alive under him, rubs himself up against Steve’s abdomen until he’s at full mast as well.

Steve’s hand comes between their bodies when Billy starts to really get wet, his cockhead smudging shiny pre over Steve’s stomach as he starts to leak further down, smearing slick between his own thighs and on Steve’s sac.

“Fuck,” he swears, turning away slightly when Steve takes him in hand.

Steve smirks against his jaw and rubs his thumb under the crown, coaxing more mess out of him. Billy just lets him, holding onto his shoulders and listening to the slippery noises of Steve’s dry palm getting wet with his pre as he strokes over him. The pressure is _good_ , not quite enough though, but there’s intention there.

Then Steve hoarsely whispers, “You’re getting really wet.”

Billy just nods and rests his forehead into the crook of Steve’s neck, right next to his scent gland. He’s throwing off fire and spice again, but there’s also that hint of Billy’s own sweetness seeping out underneath it.

“Feels good, tha’s why.”

“You smell like _me_ too.”

And he does, really — they’re miming each other again, but now Billy’s putting Steve’s scent out more strongly than he was last night. It’s a little overwhelming, especially with how voraciously they’re both throwing it off, but it’s also so _good_ that he’s not all that bothered with how dizzying it is.

Billy then swivels his hips again, gets right next to Steve’s ear. “Want your fingers in me,” he pants, “want you to open me up, like this, then I want you to fuck me slow and deep.”

Steve answers him with blown out pupils and a slightly dazed nod, but then he’s removing his hand from Billy’s cock, which pulses from the absence of friction. His hand slips around and down Billy’s back, until his fingertips are sliding down his crack.

Billy sighs when Steve wetly rubs over his hole with two fingers, circles them around his rim a few times, then curls them inside with ease. He buries his face further into Steve’s neck and desperately clutches at his shoulder blades when Steve slowly guides his fingers in further, stopping just short of his spot.

He crooks them up once, twice, then scissors them open a little and Billy’s panting with the way Steve strokes at him expertly from the inside. A third finger soon joins the first two and Steve punches in deep, jabbing right into Billy’s prostate and shooting icy hot sparks up from his core.

“Fucker,” Billy grunts.

“Shh, you love it.”

Steve starts working along his neck as he taps his fingers inside, keeping light but constant pressure. Billy just focuses on the deft strokes Steve aims over the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucks around his scent gland, but never or over it.

But then, Steve _does_ drag his teeth over the spot and digs in _just_ enough as he presses into Billy’s prostate with a little extra pressure, and Billy’s coming with no warning.

It hits him all at once, the building sensation instead driving through him at hyperspeed and he lets out some incomprehensible noise as he shoots up Steve’s chest and stomach. He just clenches down and grips Steve tighter as he finishing coming. His cock bobs uselessly, untouched, as the last weak spurts land under his own navel.

“Fuck, didn’t mean to do _that_ ,” Steve says, hoarse but amused.

Billy jerks and squeezes around his fingers, feeling like his _soul_ has been pulled out his body and then shoved back in, then sags against Steve’s and drags his cock through the sticky, warm mess he’s created.

“Just, just fuck me, will ya?”

“How d’you want me?”

Giving a flippant hand motion, Billy just grumbles something unintelligible. He doesn’t really care, honestly, just trying to catch his breath and get over how _hard_ his climax hit him. Like, as long as Steve’s in him again, asap, he doesn’t care if he’s hanging upside down off the bed with all the blood rushing to his head or if he’s wrangled into some Kama Sutra bullshit.

Steve luckily decides for him, gently easing Billy off his lap and laying him back down carefully. At this angle, he’s got his head inches away from the footboard and the sun’s almost at a midpoint in the sky, nearly blinding him as it comes through the open window and sneaks around Steve’s silhouette.  

But Steve’s just hovering over him, staring down at him with this awed expression on his face, chest splotchy and cock hard between his legs.

“What’s the _hold up_ , here,” Billy gripes, “come on, Harrington, fill me up.”

With a roll of his eyes, Steve’s sitting back and getting back into position. More sunlight glows around him, giving him this dreamy, halo effect. “You’re bossy, d’you know that?”

Billy sticks his tongue out, bratty. “I’m still in heat, don’t be a dick to me.”

Steve just parts his thighs with a smirk and moves forward, holding his base as he presses his cock against Billy’s slick entrance.

“Y’know, I _was_ going to tell you that you look gorgeous,” he admits. “But you wanna get fucked, so never mind.”

Billy feels his cheeks heat, something that’ll never go away no matter how many times Steve compliments or aims to charm him. He cups Steve’s cheek and runs his thumb over his cheekbone, stops right over a mole.

“You are _so_ corny,” he sighs.

Steve nuzzles into his palm and presses his lips over an old callus under Billy’s ring finger. “And you _love it_.”

It’s useless to argue at this point so Billy sticks his tongue out again, still breathless, and holds one of his legs open for Steve to sink in all the way. Steve immediately recognizes the invitation and does just that, plants his hands on the sheets on both sides of Billy’s head.

They start slow, like Billy wanted, sharing open-mouthed between breaths. It feels like hours pass as Steve moves in him with lazy pulls of his hips, like he wants to make a home inside Billy’s body. Steve’s back is sunbaked when Billy gets one hand on the back of his neck and the other spread over his spine. He can imagine his splayed palm making a white handprint on Steve’s back if the sun’s on him for too long.

Eventually, the pleasure of Steve’s teeth and tongue in his mouth and the sensation of his cock bumping his prostate is enough to keep Billy hard and wet, but doesn’t press him toward orgasm faster. It doesn’t _build_ , just overlaps like the tide washing in and out on the sandy shoreline.

Billy spurs Steve on with his heels digging into the globes of his ass, and luckily that’s enough for Steve to go, “ _oh_ ,” and grin down at him, start fucking his hips in for real.

The second that Steve really gets going, when he’s lost in the tight heat he’s thrusting into it, Billy thinks, albeit dazedly, it’s time for him to implement his plan to get marked.

He retracts the hand he’s had spread over Steve’s back and pulls it to his own chest, and gives his cock a few jerks. He doesn’t give himself too much friction to rut into, or really get about to properly jacking himself off — he does just enough to garner Steve’s attention down.

“Damn, baby,” he breathes, watching, hypnotized, as he watches Billy pull at his cock, dips his finger into his pre and lets it string out between his fingers.

Billy gives himself a few terse jerks then laps his mess off his fingers. Steve _growls_ as he makes a show of it, sucking his fingertips into his mouth and licking his lips, as if he’s been given real sweet treat.

Then, because this _always_ works Steve up, he strokes down his pectorals while holding Steve’s gaze captive, and pinches one dark nipple between his thumb and index finger. He tugs, gently, then harder, urging the nub to become more erect under his fingers. It’s a pleasurable type of pain, but it’s better when Steve does it, because he’s gentle until he uses his teeth.

But he also encourages Billy to play with them when he’s rimming him or sucking him off, so Billy knows Steve has a _thing_ for his nipples in any context.  

Steve chokes as he watches him, and Billy sucks his fingers before he moves to play with the other one, making himself shiver when his saliva touches the sensitive skin. It peaks almost immediately and Steve fucking ducks down and sucks it into his mouth, presses his teeth in and _pulls_.

Billy gets a little derailed at that, whining and caught between moving toward and rolling away from Steve’s mouth. The little movements he makes has him clenching up on Steve’s cock, which is nudged directly into his prostate. He feels Steve pulse, the base of his cock starting to swell.

With a shudder, Steve pulls back from his chest and shakily wipes at his mouth. “Think ‘m gonna come soon, _fuck_.”

Billy chuckles airily, just on the side of maniacal.

And, engage.

“You gonna shoot inside me, baby? Try and knock me up?”

Steve gasps and is suddenly gripping his hips, blunt fingernails nearly breaking the skin. “Jesus your fucking _mouth_ -”

“You want that, don’t you? Want me full of your come and your pups?”

It’s maddening the way he can babble when he gets started like this. He could go on for fucking hours, if it had Steve shaking and whimpering and fucking into him with a raw kind of desperation.

The past two days Billy been so uncharacteristically quiet too, so _overwhelmed_ he could only gasp and whine. Now though, he’s the most coherent and the closest to himself he’s been in forty-eight hours, and he can’t _stop_.

Steve’s panting over him, flushed crimson. “But then you’ll just be another dripping little omega who needed it _so_ _bad_ that you went and got knocked up by some big, bad alpha, huh?”

He was _not_ expecting that, not one fucking _bit_ , and Billy keens something desperate and sweet. A strong spike of arousal ripples through his veins and he pinches his eyes shut as a gush of slick works out of his hole, wetting his thighs further.

The sounds between them, fucking _hell_ , he just notices how _wet_ they sound. Billy’s dripping a few tacky rivulets down his thighs, getting too turned on to worry about how abashed, how _slutty_ it is. Steve’s getting him so wet, is going to make him come so hard he could blackout.

He just needs Steve to keep talking. He could probably come just from Steve talking back to him, if the kind of responses he’s going to get stay just as consistently filthy. At this point, fuck his plan — he’s going to get both Steve and _himself_ so riled up with the thought of getting knocked up that Steve’s just going to fucking _attack_ him.

“Keep talking like that,” Billy chokes out, “ _please_ baby, ’m gonna come again.”

He keeps his legs open wider, pulls his taught thighs apart. The continuous rhythm of wet as Steve fucks into his slippery, leaking hole is music to his ears, the only sound filling the space in the room beside their gasps and moans.

Then Steve rubs a teasing thumb into the soft skin of one sweat-slick pectoral, and fulfills his desires.

“Gonna come inside you over and over again until there’s too much of me inside you that it’s spilling down your legs — not gonna stop until I get you nice and full with my pups… would you like that, sweetheart? You want me to fuck you until you’re swollen here?” and Steve rests one palm over the damp skin of Billy’s lower abdomen and gently strokes, “because I’m not going to stop until I get a baby in you, make everyone know that I’m your alpha, that you’re _mine_.”

Billy’s orgasm hits him hard and fast with Steve’s hand on his lower stomach. It’s wrenched out of him, painfully tugged out of his system, and it’s impossible to breathe for a good four seconds. He can’t do anything but grip Steve’s forearms and stare up at him, at the crease in his brow and pink in his cheeks as his mouth falls open, obvious he’s just shocked as Billy is that it’s hit him so suddenly.

Once the peak of his climax tapers out and the tension bleeds from his body, Billy takes a deep, shaky inhale and unhooks his blunt nails from Steve’s arms. His heart drums a furious in his chest as he greedily gulps in some more oxygen, feeling lightheaded, and lets his body go properly limp.

Steve’s stopped moving inside him and his hips are just pressed flushed to the sweat-damp insides of Billy’s thighs. His bangs are damp with sweat and there’s some of Billy’s come high up on his chest, from where he shot off like a rocket mere seconds ago.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Steve breathes. “Is this really doing it for you?”

Billy keens weakly. “Keep fucking me, please, just keep going,” he nearly begs.

And who is Steve to tell him _no_.

Steve grips the footboard with one hand as he rocks forward, the other holding Billy open. Billy attempts to hold his other thigh back, but suddenly all his energy is drained and he can only _take it_ , count down the seconds until Steve comes inside him again, knot pulsing.

It’s then that Billy realizes he’s _crying_ , like, full on crying, big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he hiccups through it, overwhelmed out of absolutely nowhere.

He’s scrubbing at his cheeks as he tries to quiet himself, because Steve’s trying to move his hands out the way to assess the damage even as he stretches Billy with his cock and doesn’t pause his relentless assault against his spot.

“‘s fine,” Billy argues wetly, despite Steve’s creased brow, “just keep talking t’me, baby, just _knot me_.”

Steve’s breath hitches and the bed creaks with the newfound force behind his thrusts. He’s gulping down air like he’s asphyxiating, eyes pinching shut even as he fights to keep them open, watching Billy fruitlessly wipe at his eyes.

His cock’s not even _soft_ — it’s still hard, twitching and red between them despite the cooling come splattered up their torsos. Steve gets one hand between them to stroke him quick and hard, clutching the polished wood with his other hand hard enough he must be warping it.

“God you’re beautiful, Billy, so fucking _gorgeous,_ the most - _fuck,_ ‘m close - _breathtaking_ thing I’ve ever seen, and taking my cock so well, hungry for that fucking _knot_ ,” and Steve scoops some of the come up to coat his cock, make the slide of his palm easier, “wanting me to knock you up, _breed_ you.”

Billy revels in the short, quick thrusts of Steve’s hips as he rushes to come, still hiccuping and teary but needing Steve to knot him again so he can catch his breath, give his body what it craves.

“Knot me baby, c’mon, give it to me,” he chokes out, tugging Steve down by the back of neck so their breaths intermingle, “bite me Steve, bite me, fucking _claim me_ -”

And Steve comes with a drawn out whine, his knot popping all the way as he sinks his teeth into the meat of Billy’s neck, hitting his scent gland on point. It stings so bad it _burns_ , but he lets Steve hold firm even as he whines and attempts to recoil from the sharp pain.

Steve clenches down a little harder and holds Billy in his mouth like prey, his knot tugging at Billy’s rim as he floods him with release, filling him with all he has to give.

And Billy comes like that, too — Steve’s knot pumping him full enough to leak, his own blood smeared down the column of his throat while his mate claims him.

Euphoria spills through his every nerve ending, replacing the pain. It’s like every single one of his cells has caught fire and burns, shoots off sparks. It’s the calmest sort of sensation though, has him _finally_ feeling satisfied, his fever completely broken and his hormone influx calming as he gets what he truly craved all along.

He lets Steve’s weight ground him for a long while. Steve’s knot takes longer than usual to go down, and when it does, he still stays inside to keep Billy plugged up.

Eventually though, Steve carefully retracts his teeth and laps at the warm blood pooling in Billy’s collarbone, dripping down his neck and staining the mattress cover. The wound itself isn’t _profoundly_ deep, but Steve had his teeth in as deep as they could go and kept them there for a decent amount of time; it’s still a puncture wound.

“You gonna bite me too?” Steve asks lowly, eyeing the mark he’s left on Billy’s neck. It’s dripping the slightest amount, but it’ll stop before too soon.

Billy looks at him dazedly, feeling a little drunk and dumb, a mix of the blood loss and the hormonal rush that’s just left him. “Gimme like, one second,” he slurs, “feeling a _little_ out of it here.”

Steve just smirks as he gently thumbs over his fresh mark, smudges a trickle of blood.

“Take as long as you need,” he whispers, and bares his own neck for the taking.

Billy bites him later, completely draped over him, the two pressed skin to skin. Steve whimpers when he breaks the skin and again when he sinks his teeth as far in as they’ll go. Warmth floods through him, a similar sensation to being bitten, as Steve’s blood fills his mouth. He holds firm until Steve relaxes, then waits it out more until it feels _right_ for him to release, and then retracts his teeth with the utmost care.

He cleans the coppery crimson mess on Steve’s neck with his tongue and kisses over his mark, drapes himself over Steve’s chest. There’s still blood leaving the bite but the bond will help it heal and scar up properly; his own mark is still extremely tender, but it’s already stopped bleeding.

Billy doesn’t know what to say after something like that, so he just rests on Steve’s chest and listens to his heartbeat, watches his face carefully as he touches the mark and winces.

“Yours hurt too?” Steve asks, retracting his fingers and scrunching his nose up at the smear of blood that remains.

Billy nods. “It’s probably gonna sting for awhile. But, fuck, don’t _touch_ it, it’s gonna hurt more if you mess with it.”

“Okay, _mom_.”

Steve shifts momentarily and reaches for a pillow, sets it against the footboard and hauls Billy back over him.

Everywhere their skin touches feels magnified — each shift, drag, each feather-light touch. The touch resonates after they pull away, the ghost of each brush of skin remaining.

Initially Billy thought everything would be heavy, thought he’d be electrified, like everything had sparked and caught fire and _burned,_  but instead it’s all the same, just _more._ Layered, heavy, tied together. Bonding, claiming, whatever, he knows it’s supposed to bring a pair closer together, but he never bought into the ‘psychic’ connection bullshit.

Like, he can’t read Steve’s fucking _thoughts_ , but it feels different, albeit the same. Just, _more_ , magnified. He can’t really describe it, but he can feel it, knows Steve can feel it too.

It’s quiet between them for awhile; he traces figure-eights over Steve’s chest and Steve snuffles into his hair, twists and braids some of the locks together.

When Billy’s close to dozing off, Steve pokes him in the side.

“We’re mated now,” he says out of nowhere.

He looks absolutely in awe, like the weight of the situation’s just now sunk in.

Billy nods and nuzzles into his left pectoral, breathing in smoky skin. “Mhm, mean’s you’re stuck with me for _good_ now, pretty boy.”

Steve folds his arms over his back, hands clasped over his bicep.

“Oh no, whatever will I _do_ ,” he jokes, “stuck with someone I actually love for the rest of my _life_.”

Billy smirks into Steve’s skin. “It’s a goddamn travesty.”

“An absolute _nightmare_.”

“Your own personal _hell_.”

“Well,” Steve sighs, “let’s look at the bright side here. At least it means I get to keep _you_.”

Billy can’t fight the smile that spreads over his face, so he goes back to tracing circles and swirls over Steve’s sternum until they decide to, finally, get up and celebrate re-entering the real world after three days out of it, with Chinese takeout for dinner, another shared shower in the master bath, and a freshly made bed to fall asleep in, spooned up together.

* * *

When they show up at the Byers’ the next day, the barbecue is in full swing. It’s warm and a little muggy out, the sky is cloudless overhead.

Neither Billy or Steve say anything about what’s happened, of course; they set down the food - Henderson had begged for peach cobbler and Steve bent to his will like always - they volunteered to bring, exchange pleasantries - more Steve’s thing than Billy’s - and help set up any way they can. Billy’s in particularly high spirits, glowing post-heat. His spritely attitude attracts Max’s attention, but she just takes it as him being happy to be out of Neil’s grasp and punches him in the shoulder as a greeting.

The first to see his fresh mark is Nancy Wheeler, which encourages his good mood even more when he sees how pink her cheeks get and how quickly she averts his gaze afterwards.

No one else seems to notice, not until Joyce and Hopper call them to eat.

Henderson parks himself on one side of Steve, where his fresh mark, all bruised and puffy, is perfectly visible, and the _second_ the kid turns to ask Steve to pass the watermelon, he nearly throws a conniption fit and sends the whole table into a confused uproar.

But because he’s a dumb kid - Billy doesn’t _care_ how smart Steve claims Henderson is, the kid’s the most oblivious of the bunch, even more so than El, Jane, whichever, and Steve told him she grew up in a _lab_ \- he keeps insisting that Billy’s _mauled_ Steve, causing the rest of the kids to argue that, ‘it’s a hickey, you dumbass’, until Max eyes the side of _Billy’s_ neck from across the makeshift picnic table, and yanks at his shirt collar.

And when she’s the one who confirms what it _really is_ , silence spreads out over the table.

They’ve got all eyes on them for the most part - Hopper’s rolling his eyes all _good grief_ and looking a little less than surprised while Joyce tries to hide her obvious smile behind her napkin - and Steve’s beet red, but he’s also biting back a smile and clutching Billy’s hand under the table.

Billy just smirks and folds his collar down more so it’s more visible, welcoming more gawks and stares from the kids - plus another flushed expression from Princess Wheeler and downcast, wide eyes from Jonathan - but he doesn’t really mind, not with Steve sat next to him and their fingers intertwined, the permanence of their love branded on their necks for the rest of their lives -- _forever_ and on.

And Billy thinks, _knows_ , that maybe forever, if it’s with Steve, is enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for your patience, and for reading! i hope this was worth the wait <3
> 
> find me elsewhere:
> 
> [tumblr](http://sparkleeye.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/sparkleyeye) | [nsfw twitter](http://twitter.com/gentlechokehold) | [instagram (art)](http://instragram.com/eye.sparkles)

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @ sparkleeye!


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